You've Got Mail
Dana Quell


So it's come to this.

1:31 am, Saturday night in the middle of July, and here, with Xplosive Pizza Goldfish on the bed next to me, ignored until the Internet connection on my laptop starts to lag. And on the screen in front of me, some company located halfway across the states asking for my screen name and password. Except, I don't give them _my_ password but _hers_ instead.

//I can't believe you're doing this, Katrina.//

//I can't believe I haven't already,// I answer myself.

I pull up her mail, recently checked. She leaves little traces of herself within, but then, she doesn't have any reason to erase them behind her. At least, she didn't before all of this has started. I read her words, the only thing I have left of her anymore, and feel my soul ripped apart. She has gone on. No mention of me at all. At least, if there had been bitter, twisted words I could be sure that she has come out of this as scathed and battle-weary as I. But there is nothing.

1:47 now, and I have ruminated enough upon what is not there. I, too, must go on -- must become a more active participant of my present instead of merely a demon of my past. I have more stable friends, a boyfriend, all of whom would like my attention. And finally, I have this monkey off my back.

I delete all traces of myself and the journey I have made this morning and then leave. It is time for me to go on.

So it has come to this.