They didn’t meet. Not in the traditional sense. No hallway collision. No shared train ride. No missed calls. Just a box of light. Just the internet between them.
He found her in a forum thread about dreams and déjà vu. She commented on a post he almost didn’t make. He replied. She replied. The thread died — but something else didn’t.
Their messages got longer. Then shorter. Then longer again. They stopped pretending it was about anything other than **this** — the weird magic of knowing someone through glow and code.
She asked what he looked like. He lied a little. He asked if she was real. She paused a long time before answering: “Aren’t we all pretending something?”
They never FaceTimed. Never sent pictures. But they told each other truths no one else had ever earned. He fell asleep typing once. Woke up hours later. She was still there: “I stayed.”
One day, the account vanished. No goodbye. No glitch. Just gone. But sometimes, when he types late at night — the cursor flinches. And it feels like someone’s watching.