The change was subtle; my bow tie dull, the Tardis' paint was a bit scuffed up, Amy's laughter was fainter. Things I should have noticed then but didn't. I paid no mind to them because they were unimportant at the time. Oh, how I was wrong. It's been a few months since it all started fading. She was indifferent when I asked if she wanted a ride in the Tardis one day. She said she had school work to do; she was too busy to play. I understood and left her to her work. I sauntered back to the Tardis alone when I noticed a few windows were broken. I thought it strange, seeing how nobody could really break an imaginary time machine. I shrugged it off. The next day Amy had some friends over. They had started to tease her about her 'imaginary friend'. I stood tall and proud, waiting for Amy to defend me like she always did when I was beaten down by her simple words. I don't have an imaginary friend. My hearts froze. Nothing could have prepared me for that. She didn't acknowledge my presence for the rest of the day or the day after. That's when I noticed the fading. My bow tie was no longer bright red, my jacket seemed to gain a few holes, the Tardis was in need of a paint job. My world was crumbling. Amy was trying to forget me, to brush me off like dust. I questioned her about it.
"Why are you leaving me? Why?"
"I can't talk to you, Doctor. A girl my age can't have imaginary friends anymore."
"Why not? Who says so?"
But she wouldn't answer me. That was the last time we talked; at least held a conversation. I tried pleading with her, begging her to travel with me once again, but she would not answer me or look at me. The fading became worse. Cobwebs encroached upon the Tardis and I was beginning to become transparent. I feel like a ghost, floating around, following my Pond. She still does not acknowledge me but I don't think I will ever disappear completely and that's the worse part. She will always have the memory of her childhood imaginary friend but won't ever see him fully. I watch her grow up, fall in love, become a mother. Her and her husband, Rory, have a beautiful baby girl named Melody. Unruly blond hair, fierce bright eyes. I watch her take her first steps, mother and father ecstatic. On the night of her fourth birthday, Amy tucks Melody into bed and kisses her forehead as always. But then she pauses.
"Melody, I have one last present for you."
The little girls face brightens, "Really?"
"Mhmm. But I couldn't box this one up for you. He's an old friend of mine from when I was your age. He means the world to me and I need you to take care of him for me now. Can you do that?"
I feel color flowing back into me.
"Yes." She answers, "What's his name?"
My bow tie is bursting red; my jacket feels softer than silk.
That's when she looks at me, my Amelia, my Pond. She looks me straight in the eyes with tears welling up, "His name's the Doctor."