I never really knew her, and I still don’t, but in a way that’s even worse. Complicates things more, you see. Knowing someone personally means having an idea of what they look like, where they live, what to expect of them, how to contact them. With netfriends, there’s just computerized mishmash and whatever information one sees fit to stick online. No faces, no physical characteristics, sometimes no names, frustrating as anything. I never thought to get any other contact information from her; I never knew her well enough, and it never occurred to me I might need to know it at all.

And aside from her diary, I really don’t know all that much about her. I know she said she hated tornadoes, that she trusted me, that she could help me with my math. She was the first person to ever list me as a favorite diary, which practically sent me into a state of shock. Granted, I’d kept my diary locked for the first thirty-some entries, but nevertheless…

Her diary was one of the first ones I ever started to read, back when I was a novice to the whole business and new to the ’net. I’d found out about Diaryland by way of a newspaper article and thought it looked interesting. I came across La Ange’s abode when it was only eleven entries long, and from there it proved addictive. Sickeningly fascinating, if you will. And then the author and I started swapping words. And it went well, which is saying something. Communication doesn’t come easily to certain individuals. That is, I used to pound out half a dozen rough drafts before writing two lines in a guestbook, to say nothing of e-mails. To this day, I’m lucky if I can make it through an AIM conversation without feeling like an idiot at at least three different points. But oddly enough La Ange turned out to be my first actual netfriend.

I’ve left notes in her guestbook every now and then, primarily just saying foolish things, though I did leave my new URL once I moved.

That really was a long time ago, now that I think about it.

Some conveniently nameless idiots left a few callous messages in her book a few months ago and I left a callous message of my own directed towards them. I don’t want to think they’re true, but at this point there’s precious little else to think. She knows she’s a popular read; it wouldn’t be like her to avoid her public if she had a chance to regain touch with it, especially if she was well. So, metal genius, where’s she been then? Locked up on hyperal for the past eight months? Praying to the catheter gods? For all this time? It’s possible. Unpleasant to think about, but not improbable.

She wasn’t in for very long before; I assumed she’d be out again soon after the return trip. But then, I don’t know just how far along she was, much less what happened afterward. She would list numbers, like a true math student, but never descriptions. She might have had the lanugo, the worn teeth, who knows what. It’s best to stop speculating.

Getting plaintive here.

I miss her and I worry about her, and I don’t know what else I can do short of driving off and stalking her on another level.

Open note: Come Back.

Adieu.