\"When a boy walks into your room, naked except for a shadow, and lays down next to your crying, trembling teenage body, you cannot help but fall in love.\" In a round the room the color of moss, on a sofa of well-treated leather (I often complain to him about that, about all the cows that had to die so I coulfd sit comfortably and talk to him) I let myself lie back and thought of the way to tell him this. He\'d seen it all before, he knew me better than anyone else, but I needed to tell someone. It was something about coming clean, putting it all out in the open, that motivated me. Some of my friends knew little bits, they\'d met Brian, or heard about him, but none of them knew the depths of my feelings for him. I\'m sure if they all came together and over a cup of chai talked about what they knew they could probably piece together the entire puzzle, but I don\'t think any of them had the interest, and besides, I\'d hope they value my friendship more than that. No, I\'m telling it all to the only person I know will listen to me and believe me. On one side of the room, behind the chair he\'s sitting cross-legged in, there are three small circular windows, looking out on different scenery each time I visit. Sometimes it\'s a lonely city, other times it\'s an empty garden, but this time it\'s a field, with one solitary tree, against which Brian leans, a notebook in his hand, or maybe a guitar, depending on which way I look at it. I make to head out, but I remember there are no doors, there is only one way out. I sit back on the leather sofa (finding it difficult to get comfortable knowing of the deaths that took place, and begin the task of laying it all out in front of the goateed, bespectacled psychiatrist opposite me.
\"You can take your time.\" He says. \"I am in no rush, I have nowhere to be.\"
I settle in a little further, and open my mouth.
\"Brian is...\" I started, then paused, reversed and started again. \"Brian came into my life about three years ago, one lonely night as I lay in bed thinking about love, or sex, or something, he just walked in and lay down next to me. We made love that night, he was gentle, he was caring, he kept me warm, it beat my fourteen year old\'s loneliness and pubescent depression like no thing else, when I woke up the next morning I thought it was too good to be true, and it was, and always has been. My single bed was empty, and I was alone, but I wasn\'t really lonely, I could still feel him in my arms, and taste him on my lips.
\"I remember what he smelt like, that night, three years ago, as hard as that may be to believe, I remember the feel of his chest as it moved in and out, but I don\'t remember the color of his hair, or the sound of his voice, because it\'s changed so much over the years. You see Brian is more than just my love, he\'s a creature I created, spawned with my own pen. He\'s been the centre of almost every piece I\'ve written since then, whether I intended it that way or not. Sure, I created James, a character modelled after my father, and Simon, Brian\'s love interest, modelled as much from my bad side as Brain is from my good side, and Julia, Brian\'s final attempt at heterosexuality, and all these characters are good people, but none of them are matched in their depth, or the extent of my feelings for them, as Brian. I have never met him and yet still he holds one of the most important roles of my life, I hope one day he\'ll make me famous, so then I won\'t be ashamed to be talking to, and having an affair with, a voice in my head.
\"You know what I look forward most about being able to get my driver\'s license, Because I will be able to get it, in a couple of weeks? It\'s not the freedom, not the sense of responsibility, but the chance to be alone with Brian, to talk to him somewhere outside my bed, outside the moments when i\'m slipping into deep sleep. I want him to exist somewhere outside my writing, somewhere more real, even if it\'s only real for me. It is my belief in Brian that stops me from being a nihilist, he holds the key that saves me from total existentialism and as such, gives a little emaning to my life, even if they are just sensory indulgences I imagine as I dift off towards sleepland.
\"I don\'t know what to do, I\'ve looked for a Brian, I\'ve tried several times, and ruined several relationships. I feel, if not for shyness I would stand up and say \'come to me Brian, come and we can make love like I dreamt\' but my fear is that it\'ll turn into a Monty Python sketch, with crucified lovers all claiming to be Brian, but that\'s just looking on the bright side, what I\'m most scared of is being put away, being told I\'m crazy for loving someone that doesn\'t exist, or being told I\'m crazy for talking to a psychiatrist in my head who resembles Kurt Cobain in appearance and temprement, and Albert Camus in philosophy and speech. I\'m not crazy, I\'m certain of that, I\'m just a lover, a little lost and a little confused. I used to think that to believe in love you\'d have to be crazy, that was until I met Brian.\"
I could see a light shine through the centre window, which grew brighter and larger as the room faded from veiw, moments later I found myself in the field, running into my lover\'s arms. He had not heard my confession, but he smiled lovingly anyway, and we walked arm in arm back to my bed, where we made love like we used to.