Her junk email overflows in silent choruses of ‘Where are you’s’ and ‘We miss you’s’. She clicks through them all, feeling an odd sense of comfort. It’s all coding, she knows. A programmed sincerity from her neglected accounts that isn’t at all rooted in human concern. But it’s more than she’s ever gotten from the people she does know – friends and family, she could count on three fingers. Not that she blames them for their apathy. Because she makes it easy to forget; existing on the fringes of their conscious, legs dangling the deep gully where thoughtless remembrances tumble away. Which suits her just fine; this sense of anonymity that goes undisturbed for as long as she wants.
Or maybe it is her fault, having burrowed so deep in solitude. But it’d be nice, she admitted to the attentive walls — always eager to listen to her open musings — if they checked on her with a little enthusiasm and perhaps even a smidge of curiosity.