My Internet Boyfriend Died

Mourning IRL

The first time you called me on the phone was to tell me you were dead. It wasn’t actually you calling, but I didn’t realize that when all I saw was an unfamiliar area code, your name on the top of my screen, and that picture of you smiling over breakfast. That’s all it took to make my heart beat faster, my head to start spinning, and for everything else to disappear. I was so excited that you were using your phone to actually call me. When I managed to control myself enough to answer, I heard a male voice with a faint accent and just assumed it was you. You, calling to say that you missed me.

It had been months since I’d heard your voice in person, but I suppose that’s what made you my internet boyfriend. Often I felt like there was no other way to tell you that I liked you than by literally liking you everywhere I could. A heart here, a reblog there, texting every colour of the emoji rainbow.

The first time you called me on the phone you told me your name was Adam. I didn’t know who Adam was, because I was introduced to him the same time that I met you, and I wasn’t paying attention to anything else that day. I was only aware of you, and me, and Adam was some figure in the background of the apartment that became our love story. By the time I realized that it wasn’t you on the phone, that it wasn’t your accent I was hearing, I had already learned that you were dead.

Adam found my number in your phone, and I still wonder how many other girls he called that day. I know I wasn’t the only one who stumbled awkwardly around your apartment, and I certainly wasn’t the only one who tried to tell you that I liked you by double tapping a photo on a screen with my finger. Did he just go through your contacts, your texts, your messages, looking for girls you would have meant something to? Or did he remember me because you would talk about me?

When you died you left a trail for anyone to discover and everyone to follow. I wound myself back and forth through your life, looking at the world through your eyes and getting in your head by reading your words. Clicking the back button, loading more, over and over and over again until I reached the beginning of your existence and my thumb was getting sore.

There was this one girl, I found her blog. She tagged your name in her posts—hashtag Mac—like you were a fucking trending topic. I clicked on that obnoxious tag and there was this whole relationship in front of me, categorized into neat little dates and kisses, all with a corresponding timestamp.

Her art is still on your walls, long after you broke up, and I don’t know what will happen to it now. She has a large following, and I wonder if she’ll be remembered as the one you loved, because history is written by the victors.

I went to your funeral. I wasn’t willing to randomly fly across the continent just so your warm arms could hold me for hours, but I rearranged everything for your cold, pale body. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. You asked me to come there, and I never did, always making excuses: I wish, work is too much, I need to save money, I’m coming in a few months. But none of that mattered after you called me for the first time and I found out you were dead.

I walked down the church aisle by myself, trembling. Were people looking at me? Did anyone know who I was? I thought of everything I could other than you, not wanting to face what was a few feet ahead. But just like when you called me, as soon as I saw your face everything else disappeared. You still have that effect on me, even when you’re lifeless.

You looked so coiffed and perfect, like you always do. Our time together was so short, I could have stared at you forever trying to make you real. But for a minute, we were together. My heart was simultaneously heavy and light as all our moments came rushing back to me, suffocating me in a cocoon of emotion that I couldn’t escape from.

In that moment, I didn’t remember the ephemeral hearts you gave me through the internet. I remembered how you made me feel after waking up next to you for the first time, how you would interrupt me with kisses when I was awkwardly stammering, letting me know that to you, I was perfect. I remembered how you smiled when I was on top of you and the words you whispered in my ear that will always be between us.

You always told me I was perfect, and you’re the only one who ever has.

I recognized some of your friends in the pews. I met them after, Adam introduced me. We went to a bar and ordered your favourite tequila, and I drank enough for the both of us because you weren’t there to drink your half. Your friends told all these stories about drunk Mac, sleazy Mac, funny Mac, talented Mac. Versions of you I’ll never get to know.

According to Facebook, these are your real friends, and I am not one of them. I am grieving alone in our own private corner of the internet, separated from sorrow. I am left with pieces of you strewn across this world wide web of lies, and I am trying to tie everything together so I can “grieve,” but I don’t even understand the concept. If grieving is reading everything you’ve ever written and viewing every photo you’ve ever taken, then sure, I’m grieving.

You were so honest when you were younger, and I wish I knew you then. I wish I could have known you as a boy without a beard, or a college student with long hair, or heard your accent back when you lived in Texas. It was much thicker, I’m sure. I wish we could have known each other when we lived in the same city and didn’t have to calculate the time difference every time we want to talk.

I wish you would have called me on the phone.

This essay is a work of fiction. You can direct any questions or feedback to me at @taylrn on Twitter.