She was missing.
I knew, I knew, she had been here the night before. A quiet one, she had not engaged me in conversation, content to browse silently, but I missed her nonetheless.
I can’t even remember her name. Isn’t that tragic? To know you are missing someone, and not even be able to recall a name, or to couple her with a face?
At least, I think she was a she. Maybe he was a he.
Did I offend her (or he)? Worse yet, bore her with trite monologues about life with Pippi Longstocking, Bacon McDoubles, or harried walking? Did I subconsciously send out a message that I cared only about numbers and stats, instead of the people behind them?
Did I give the impression that I cared only about the beautiful orange blossoms blooming in the upper right corner of my screen, visible proof of friendship and camaraderie?
Dear missing follower: what could I have done differently?
I missed you this morning. Scanning through stats and numbers, I beamed happily at the fond remembrance that the number of posts and number of followers had matched the night before – 89 and 89. Such nice twin numbers.
89 and…88? I searched through my list of followers, frantic with worry. Where were you? Where did you go? And what in the world was your name anyway?
I promise you were not just a number to me – I just don’t know your name. But I am willing to change; it’s not you. It’s me.
If you return, I swear I will be more attentive. I will learn your name, your likes, your dislikes, what your face looks like…it will all be different.
You won’t be number 89 anymore. You will be…
Well…you fill in the blank.