A small disorder. It develops in the child with no friends, no company to keep, and no one to talk to. The child is even more isolated, causing the parents to become concerned with the mental state of their child who has no friends, no one to talk to. The doctor tells them that the child needs friends, and the child, taking this out of context, begins to create them. Tall people, short people, fairies, animals, until it is too much. “My friends ARE here, mother!” they cry, but that’s unimportant because the therapist knows better. So he writes. He writes down his friends, his animals, his fairies, and his fears in the notebook handed to him. The fears drive the child mad. His mind is slowly falling into the dark due to this writing. Without it, he would have fallen slower, but the result would have been the same. Then the dreams began, his fears coming alive. The loneliness is eating at him like a lioness eating at a gazelle. But he continues to write. By the time he is in fifth grade he has finally been able to meet one person like him. She begins to bring the boy out of his comfort zone and soon, his fairies and animals, his friends and fears, all become just characters in his stories. The once real characters become things of the past and the therapist tells him he no longer needs to write, but he continues. The, now tattered, black leather-bound notebook is the only connection he has to his friends he once played with everyday. He brings them to live every once in-awhile to relay to them how he is doing, writing down his experiences with his friend. He writes about her smile and warmth, the warmth he didn’t expect to come from anyone but has somehow come to rest upon him. He