punk 57 penelope douglas


"We were amazing together. Until we met." 

Misha 

I can't resist the urge to grin at the verses in her letter. She misses me. 

In 5th grade, my educator set us up with friends through correspondence from an alternate school. Thinking I was a young lady, with a name like Misha, the other instructor matched me up with her understudy, Ryen. My educator, trusting Ryen was a kid like me, concurred. 

It didn't take long for us to sort out the slip-up. Also, in a matter of moments by any means, we were squabbling over everything. The best take-out pizza. Android versus iPhone. Regardless of whether Eminem is the best rapper ever… 

Also, that was the beginning. For the following seven years, it was us. 

Her letters are consistently on dark paper with silver composition. In some cases there's one every week or three in a day, yet I need them. She's the one in particular who keeps me on target, talks me down, and acknowledges all that I am. 

We just had three guidelines. No web-based media, no telephone numbers, no photos. We had something worth being thankful for going. Why ruin it? 

Until I stumble into a photograph of a young lady on the web. Name's Ryen, loves Gallo's pizza, and loves her iPhone. What are the odds? 

F*ck it. I need to meet her. 

I simply don't anticipate detesting what I find. 

Ryen 

He hasn't written in a quarter of a year. Something's incorrectly. Did he kick the bucket? Get captured? Knowing Misha, neither would be a stretch. 

Without him around, I'm going off the deep end. I need to realize somebody is tuning in. It's my own issue. I should've gotten his telephone number or picture or something. 

He could be gone for eternity. 

Or on the other hand directly in front of me, and I wouldn't know it. 

*Punk 57 is an independent New Adult sentiment. It is appropriate for a long time 18+.


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Punk 57