Friday, November 18

It's been a year.

November 18, 2081

You’ve been gone a year and I keep thinking about you. The first time I told you to leave, I didn’t spare a moment thinking about you. I cut you off clean. But this time something is different.

No one knows where you are. The talk shows that used to love you are confused; not even your agent can find you. Your face has started to appear on tabloid covers alongside Elvis. The men and women who called you a hero are lost and confused like a mass of walking wounded.

Where did you go?