Three weeks passed and his twitter went without post.
Three weeks and not one single blog update was made. Three weeks and his followers and readers began to fear and revolt. Angry, irritated, and fearful comments began to flow in.
And then the news came. He was dead. Andy Banks, the sandy haired, scrawny young man, with the quiet dreams for distinction had suddenly slipped out of the world. There was no warning, no pre-contracted illness, nothing to prepare his fickle, but loyal followers for a permanent loss of his off handed sarcasm, and awkwardly angled selfies.
They said it was a car accident. Such a pity. Such a sad way to go for Andy, he was always a careful boy, so attentive. Andy's cousin posted on his social media of his passing, and one thousand strangers mourned their loss for fifteen seconds, or perhaps less.
Oddly though, the lights of Andy's presumably vacant apartment flickered to life one more time, three days after the funeral. The lock clicked, and a man, in a dark coat, and hefting a suitcase stepped out.
If not for the hair, dark, and fashionably cut, and the eyes, a deep brown and not a blue, that man could have been Andy Banks.
But it wasn't. If you had checked his wallet you would have known it. All of his cards bore only one name : Russel Verghese.