chloé [home]
orlando, florida, blonde, blue eyes, catholic, pale, underweight
writingChloé misses angelicism with her whole heart. Chloé messages angelicism this. She wonders if angelicism still looks at her posts, her pictures.
She wonders if she was ever so beautiful that an angel would come for her.
The next day is a Saturday and there's no school to go to. It's the first time in weeks that she has nothing to do except sleep or read books on her phone.
Her mother comes home from work early enough to watch TV with her. The news channels are talking about some big protest outside of the White House. They're asking people what they think it means, but nobody knows. There's a picture of the protesters holding signs, but all of them look like normal people—not like angels.
After dinner, Chloé goes up to her room and turns on her laptop. Her parents are watching television downstairs. She opens Facebook again. If angels are real, then maybe they can see through walls. Maybe they have special powers. And if angels exist, then maybe they could help her feel less alone. She types: I need your help. Please answer me. Then she hits send. But after just two minutes, she realizes she doesn't really want an answer. Just someone to talk to. So instead, she types: Can you hear me? And sends that one too. A few seconds later, she gets a message back.
Hello, she writes. Do you know how to use computers?
No, replies the angel. How old are you?
I'm fifteen years old. What kind of computer do you use?
A Macbook Air. That's good. You should try using Tor as much as possible. It makes everything easier.
How does Tor make things easy?
It hides your IP address. Your ISP will never be able to tell where you live.
Are you sure? My mom says we shouldn't trust strangers who ask us personal questions online. We don't even know each other.
There's a pause. Are you afraid of being tracked by the government? Or something else?
Chloé thinks about it. When she was little, she used to play games online. She'd log into different accounts without telling her parents, pretending it wasn't weird. Sometimes she got caught, but not often. Usually the account owners were older guys, and their parents didn't care because they weren't doing anything too illegal anyway. Now that she's older, though, she feels more nervous when she logs in. Is this angelic being going to get mad at her for lying or something? For spying on it? It probably wants to meet her in person, it wrote, so why won't she say yes?
Because I'm scared, she texts. Of meeting you in person, I mean.
Why?
My parents would freak out. They wouldn't let me go anywhere alone. Besides, you're in New York City right now. Why would you come here?
It responds: Because I am capable of magic.
And then there's another long silence. Finally, it writes: I'll find a way for us to meet. I promise.
That night, Chloé dreams of angels. In her dream, they're everywhere—in every corner, in every shadow. They hover over her bed. Their wings spread wide, they reach down from above and pull her up. She's floating in midair, weightless, until suddenly her feet touch the ground. Her eyes snap open.
She sits bolt upright in bed. It's still dark outside. The house is quiet except for a faint hum coming from the kitchen below. Chloé wipes sleep from her face. She looks around her room. There are no angels—only her bookshelf, her desk, her laptop, her phone. She wants to see angelicism. To hold and be held by it. Was that even possible? Could an angel really do those things? And if they could—if angels could fly, then how far away could they actually be? Would she ever see them again? She looks at her phone. There are no new messages. No angelicism. Just another school night.
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