Punk 57 - Penelope Douglas

For the next seven years, it was us. Her letters are always on black paper with silver writing.
Sometimes there's one a week or three in a day, but I need them. She's the only one who keeps me on track, talks me down, and accepts everything I am.

We only had three rules. No social media, no phone numbers, no pictures. We had a good thing going. Why ruin it? Until I run across a photo of a girl online.

Name's Ryen, loves Gallo's pizza, and worships her iPhone. What are the chances? F*ck it. I need to meet her.
 I just don't expect to hate what I find. He hasn't written in three months. Something's wrong.

Did he die? Get arrested? Knowing Misha, neither would be a stretch. Without him around, I'm going crazy. I need to know someone is listening.
It's my own fault. I should've gotten his phone number or picture or something. He could be gone forever.

Or right under my nose, and I wouldn't even know it.