"Just five more minutes, mom" the blonde girl, her name's Alice, Amy, seriously, you should at least try to remember their names, muttered as she turned around in her sleep and held her pillow tightly.
Amy wasn't sure how she managed not to break her neck with how fast she turned around.
Five minutes, he'd said. Five minutes.
It had been a bit over six years now, and he wasn't back yet.
A part of her, the part that told her to stop biting her psychiatrists, insisted he was just a product of his imagination. He was just a reflection of how lonely she felt (had felt, still felt). She had just moved from Scotland and didn't have any friends and it was completely understandable that she'd portray that on a fictional character her imagination made up.
Bullshit.
He was real. It was all real. It couldn't not be. She had fed him, she had packed up and she had waited.
But he never came.
Just five more minutes