ds

Smartphones revolutionised our lives. We literally have a world at the tip of our fingers. Anything we want to know we ask google, anything we need support with, we download an app. We call, we video call, we conference call. We have work meetings on the phone; we write our articles and read a book; we send emails, make payments, interact on social media,…

We can manage our lives in an object that fits our pocket.

I’m an avid user of my smartphone; I use it for everything I’ve named above and much more. Maybe like you do. I learned to be more disciplined with the time I spent on it; I don’t allow my phone and its apps to dictate how I live my day anymore. I now spend more time hands-free — I even disconnect notifications when I’m writing or living my real life. This was a big step for me but one that improved my quality of life significantly.

I used to be active on several social media apps. Now, I only occasionally browse Instagram and Facebook and, if I decide to spend a bit of time in one social app, I choose Twitter — my always and forever favourite. I use it mostly as a reader, it’s rare for me to be active on it. As I once was…

It was on Twitter that I “met” R. I was a follower of his account for a while, I liked his humour, and his posts always made me laugh (still do.) One day, he posted something I related with, so I dropped a comment. He commented back, and we kept going for a while. The following days, that was our routine: him, tweeting something funny, me commenting and then several comments back and forth. Always humorous ones.

One day, in reaction to a tweet about a song I loved, I sent him a private message with another song from the same band. He replied with another song, and we start talking, now in private. Our conversation wasn’t personal; we talked about music and about his tweets and my comments.

The following morning, I woke up to a notification of a message on Twitter: R. had sent me a good morning song. From that moment on, that became our daily routine: him sending me a good morning song, me sending him a good night one. And during the day we would chat — about our days and our lives. Weeks went by and we became closer, getting to know each other.

My Twitter profile is my face. His isn’t, he has an avatar. For me, he was incognito; I had no idea with whom I was talking, apart from his age and where he lived — in a different country. It wasn’t important; we were “just texting”. Hours a day, week after week.

Our conversations were about our day, sharing things of our lives; our dreams and wishes, our adventures, memories, sadnesses and joys. For weeks, nothing else happened in that chat room other than two adults having a lovely time “together”.

Once, I told him I dreamed with him, that he was a bearded guy with greasy hair and ugly shoes. We laughed about it, and it was when I asked for a picture, I wanted to see with whom I was talking. I had thought about it before, but I didn’t want to see him — I was enjoying too much our interactions, I wanted to keep them blind as if to make our relationship unreal. I was having a great virtual time with a stranger. But that changed with the dream — now I wanted to see him.

R. sent me his picture and I stopped breathing. He was so hot and stylish! I never thought he would be like that; I had created an opposite image of him in my mind. When I saw his picture, I knew I was screwed: he had just added a (strong) physical attraction to the mix.

At that point, we were already an emotional support for each other. He has a very stressful job; often, he would come and chat with me, in our “oxygen bubble” to be apart from his stress. I, on the other hand, would vent with him about my stupid manager, my exhaustion, or my frustrations. We talked about everything. Together, we laughed, we found solutions for our problems and stresses, we listened to music, we wrote fiction pieces together, we challenged the other to do stupid funny things. Together, we did everything people in a non-virtual world do. Except being together.

One day, without any of us expecting it, our texting escalated to sexting. Soon, it escalated to having virtual sex. Without us ever losing our emotional connection: we still talked, laughed, and shared ourselves.

I was having a virtual affair. He was part of my life — someone I never met, someone I would never meet.

Even acknowledging that I was emotionally committed to someone absent, I kept telling myself I was safe, that I knew what I was doing. It wasn’t real, so my emotions weren’t solid, I could disconnect them any time I wanted, the same way I disconnected my phone.

We never talked on the phone; we never heard each other’s voice: that was one of our strategies to prevent us from becoming “serious”. It might sound silly to you, but it made sense for both of us — with a voice you get a deeper connection, you feel the other person, closer to you. You sense their emotions. We were trying to protect ourselves. Even being already so vulnerable to each other.

R. was in my mind since the moment I woke up. Anything would make me think of him. He was the person I’d reach out if I were worried or stressed; he was the one I first shared good news. As I was for him.

I was happy and feeling complete — I was falling for him, and he was falling for me. We were together; even being thousands of miles apart.

R. and I kept our virtual relationship for a couple of months. Up until the moment that it wasn’t enough for any of us. We were realistic: we both had a life in our countries, ones that we loved and couldn't imagine abdicating. We never risked a psychical encounter or even a phone call — it would put a reality to our relationship that we weren’t sure we could emotionally manage.

One day we decided to give ourselves space — to stop texting for a while. To disconnect.

We went about a month without contacting each other; the only interaction we had was random likes in our tweets. We never texted, we never commented on the tweet. We merely knowledged the other’s presence.

One day, he texted me, wanting to know how I was. I replied, and we talked for a bit, nothing too personal. Some weeks later, I texted him, and we had a similar interaction.

Time faded our emotions.

R. is a person that will always be in my heart; thinking about him, I will always smile. Months after we “broke up” we got in touch again, we sometimes spend an hour chatting, mostly to know how the other is. I consider him a friend — it was how it started, and we never lost that.

Today, a couple of years later, we’re still in contact; one of us texts the other, asking how we’re doing and we update our lives. But we never got emotional again.

It hurt when we ended; I missed him terribly, we were present in each other’s lives every single day, for months. We became close, complices, friends and lovers. We were real. Except that we weren’t.

© 2021 Emma London. All Rights Reserved