I fell in love with a Salon commenter

I FELL IN LOVE

A photo of the author.

Read about me 

“I do not know you, but I love you,” I typed. I stared at the words, momentarily letting them linger, then pressed “send.” The recipient of my confession lived thousands of miles away. We had no connection to one another aside from two pieces of writing: one article that I wrote and one comment that he left.

A few weeks earlier, I had written a story for Salon about leaving the United States because of the encounters I had with racism and my ultimate disillusionment with the “American Dream.” I described myself as a black, 23-year-old woman, and a portrait of me with wild curly hair accompanied the text. Hundreds of comments posted to my story. Only one caught my eye.

“It is revealing that a person in the author’s position must first validate her existence before her experience can be deemed relevant to the human condition,” it began. I hesitated before continuing. I had skimmed through so many comments at that point, most of which existed in a world of right or wrong. Never from a place of understanding. I wondered who this person could be who saw me as, above all, a human being.

“Please contact me on some kind of social media,” I asked the unknown writer. Soon after, I found a message in my inbox on Facebook from a Josh Mcc. He introduced himself with a brief, simple paragraph. His profile picture was of a blue, alto-cumulus-cloud-filled sky. I sat with it for a moment, trying to build the courage to say what I felt. I was in love with a stranger in the clouds.

Our relationship started slowly. We exchanged messages about our dreams, goals, passions and pasts. He told me he was an animator by trade, but he wrote because he felt it was the only way he could express himself. I told him about my new life outside of the busy one I left behind in New York City. We traded our old writings and shared new ones inspired by one another: each a tiny snippet of ourselves, cut out along imaginary lines, folded up digitally, and delivered thousands of miles by cables and satellites.

One day, a tiny photo of a smiling young man popped up beside one of his messages. I clicked it frantically, wanting to finally meet this stranger with my eyes. It was blurry and small; a picture of him smiling heartily with dimpled cheeks and caramel skin. I stared at the photo, my heart and mind racing at the sight of his face. Is this really him? Does he have any more pictures? He is really cute. Am I crazy?