It started with a single comment. A comment on her blog, about her boring little life. It probably meant nothing to the man who posted it, but it lit up her day.

After that, there were more comments. She relished in the small conversations they had through the threads, taking in any and all information he leaked about himself.

She came to expect his replies, writing blog posts for the sole purpose of getting him to respond. She loved the attention he gave… she loved what he portrayed himself to be.

What an absurd feeling, she thought, to feel drawn to words on a screen.

She knew nothing of this man, yet there was a pull at her heart, a longing she couldn’t explain. Perhaps she was just lonely, sad. Perhaps she was projecting, but to her — this seemed to be so real.

Subtle uncertainties drove her replies, hoping — wishing — that someday, he would take the hint. Someday she could be the woman in those poems. Someday she could be the person so, so longed for.

What wishful thinking, she thought. To be someone's one and only. Had that ever been true for her? Had she ever been truly loved, despite her trying so very hard?

Life seemed unreal, she concluded. Words on a screen weren't people, weren't love. Pixels on the screen meant nothing.

She was alone.
Truly.

And that was the most terrifying thing she could ever imagine. But somehow, she knew she could manage. Because that's all there was...

...to manage.

Wouldn't it be great if life were like we imagined?

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