When I was seven, I had a best friend named Gerald. He was tall, skinny, loud, and
perpetually sticky with imaginary cotton candy.
He also happened to be invisible.
Gerald wasn’t the refined, polite sort of invisible friend you hear about in parenting magazines or on TV shows.
No, Gerald had opinions.
He believed every grilled cheese should be cut diagonally, not horizontally. He refused to ride in the backseat of the car because “ghost lungs need fresh air.”
He could only sit on the right-hand side of the car, or he’d feel off balance.
Funny thing is, to this day, I still prefer the right-hand side of an airplane.
Maybe Gerald wasn’t as imaginary as everyone thought.
And in math class, he didn’t want me to use an eraser—he argued that erasers were “a tool for cowards.”
My parents humoured him, though my dad often muttered, “Does Gerald pay rent?” when Gerald insisted on his own chair at the dinner table. My mom just sighed and poured him a glass of “invisible milk,” which—according to Gerald—was “unnecessary calcium” since he didn’t have real bones anymore.
Once, on a long drive, Gerald and I had such a terrible argument that I demanded Dad pull over and make him get out of the car. Dad—with a rare show of patience—actually did it. He stepped out, opened the back door for Gerald, and then got back into the car without a word.
We drove off, me fuming in the back seat, pretending I didn’t care. But a few kilometers down the road, the loss hit me so hard I burst into tears. I begged Dad to turn around. And he did. He drove right back to the exact patch of highway where Gerald had been “left behind.” Dad opened the door and, with grand ceremony, welcomed Gerald back in.
I remember feeling both relieved and ashamed, clutching the empty air beside me as though I’d nearly lost my dearest friend.
The funny thing about Gerald was that he wore cowboy boots. Boots that were far too big for him. Bright red ones. He clomped down the hallway at night, a steady rhythm of “don’t worry, I’m here.” When I was afraid of the dark or convinced the basement held an army of monsters, those phantom boots stomped loudly enough to scare away everything except my overactive imagination.
And here’s the twist: Gerald wasn’t just company—he was competition. We argued. We bickered over Monopoly, where he insisted the thimble was “a superior piece.” He once told me my drawing of a horse looked like a potato with legs, which was deeply offensive because I’d spent at least twenty minutes on it. But somehow, his critique made me a better artist.
My next horse still looked like a potato with legs, but this time with ears.
One day, sometime around fourth grade, Gerald just…stopped showing up. No clomping boots. No sarcastic commentary. I used my eraser in math again (and almost wore it out in one class). It was as if he had been reassigned to another child—maybe to a kid who needed him more.
But every now and then, when life feels a little too heavy, I swear I hear those cowboy boots echoing faintly behind me. Maybe it’s just the floor creaking. Or maybe Gerald still drops by, checking to make sure I’m not forgetting how to laugh at myself—or at my potato-shaped horses.
Unusual friendships are the ones that stick, even if the friend never really existed.
Or maybe Gerald would argue that I was the imaginary friend, and I was the one who never really existed.
P.S. If Gerald made you smile, laugh, or remember your own unusual friend, consider subscribing for more stories like this—or share it with someone who could use a little extra positivity today
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