The Boy in the Machine

You were no more than a string of zeroes and one’s.

Photo by Darran Shen on Unsplash

I don’t remember the details since too much time has passed.

It doesn’t matter. You probably don’t remember me either. It’s better that way.

Less hurt feelings involved, you know?

You began as just a name on the screen. For a brief time that summer, every little ding of a new message would make my heart sing. I had no idea what you looked like beyond what you told me — who knows if you lied — but I still liked the attention you gave me in sentences that came one byte at a time.

But I heard the call well enough between the lines. You were lonely. So was I. That mutual feeling was what made the arrangement so much the better.

It didn’t matter that I couldn’t see you and you couldn’t see me. We talked about anything and everything — but mainly we circled the ground of how life disappointed us. You could have been lying to me about every single facet of yourself, yet the one thing that always rang true was how you were searching for a connection and you had found a strand of it in me.

I felt special because there were plenty of faceless names out there — but the one you settled on was me.