One of the rarities in society back in my childhood. Why would a boy want to play with dolls when he could play with trucks or robots? They simply didn't interest me.

One doll in particular was my best friend. Her name was Layla. She was a combination of three of my favorite "friends", all of which who had a torn limb here or paint scratch there. Their names were Lara, Jay, and Lizzy. When I combined the three, they simply became one; Layla. I loved her more than all my friends. Why? My friends didn't care for me much.

Only a few years back, I had tried to befriend a few girls by bringing Jay to school. The boys all laughed at me, and I came home crying. I hated this. I hated Lara. I hated Jay. I hated Lizzy. I just wanted to fit in!

But after a while, I realized that they made me happy. That was all that truly mattered. Years of playing caught up with them, and they began to break. I took their best remaining features, Lara's blue eyes and red hair, Jay's extremely poseable body, and Lizzy's elegant clothes, and combined them. Hence Layla. I played with her up until 10, when I decided I was too old for dolls. I hid her in my attic, and eventually forgot her.

Fifteen years later I stand in my mom's attic, looking for old holiday decorations I could use for my apartment. My eyes wander to the plastic tub across the room. Emotions run through me as I open the lid and see my best friend, the one who got me through it all, on top of the pile. It was like seeing a relative for the first time in ages. I snuck her home under a pile of ornaments.

To this day, she sits in my shirt drawer, waiting for me to open it the next morning so we can talk about the weather, or maybe our journeys years ago. I have had her repainted and mended several times, but it seems age has caught up with her. Never the less, she will always be my best friend.