Sometimes I come back. Sometimes I visit you.
I come back, open your chat, look at it, look at you; your name, on top of the screen. That is you — who you are. And a feeling overtakes me, or a million, and I’m looking at it, your name, and I wait. Wait for you to come online. Just wait, for that word to pop up: “online.”
I don’t even know why, but I like to see it, to look at it — maybe because it means that you’re alive. That somewhere out there, you are. You live, you exist. Somewhere out there, you’re living your life, and you’re on your phone, and you’re online, and I could contact you. I could reach you… but of course I can’t. I won’t. Because that is the very thing you don’t want. Because that’s what you asked of me. And that’s… okay, alright, I won’t argue with that.
But sometimes… sometimes I come back to visit the ruins. Like old ruins of a fallen, beaten empire, and feel the ghosts that haunt this place… us. Who we were, who we used to be. And I can see that you’re “online” — you’re here, but you’re not — and a feeling overtakes me again, or a million. But I’m not waiting anymore. I learned not to wait for a living ghost.
But sometimes I still take a stroll around the ruins with a smile on my face, and leave flowers on our graveyards. Because we were. We existed, we lived, we were: something… Us. And maybe in another dimension we still exist, we still are — just you and me, just us. Not apparitions who haunt old ruins, but souls — souls connected, for eternity. And I smile, because a feeling overtakes me, or a million, like always, like every time I see your name.
…
’You unblocked this contact’