A heavy sense of nostalgia washes over me, pouring over every crack and edge and filling me up before leaving me, the emptiness becoming newfound as I check the bottom right of the screen to see the seconds slowly, suddenly ticking away; it leaves me without patience. That is what he said, no doubt about that, and it leaves me breathless to think about the implications of those singular characters, made only of pixels and colour to form a message only meaning one thing to me. Nostalgia comes back like the tide, reminding me of when I last saw that pattern on the same screen, reminding me of my self-pity quickly draining out of my mind; reminding me of the fleeting feeling of friendship blossoming into intimacy.
I was shaking. My fingers rattling on the keyboard, leaving my control and never pressing down on the one letter I needed. Alas, for a split second, my body convulsed, I regained control, and as fast as my heartbeat, I closed the link between him and I. My ears were filled with my burdened breathing, but before I could rectify my mistakes, I wept until my throat crackled and broke apart the syllables which just couldn't leave it. Not like he'd hear them anyway.
Grabbing solace with one palm, my solitary body longs for another as I reach for my link to fulfilment. Hours had passed lying in silent sorrow under my sheets, thinking only of meaningful ways to send my own pattern to him, settling on the only way I knew. I click on my soul, and music bangs into my brain, and I know it's the only way to show it, and I know he will one day understand it. I don't know if he will one day understand it.
…Will he?
If the link ended, if our only contact somehow crashed into a sea of nothingness, would I be okay with that? I asked myself the question countless times, but I knew I would only find one answer. There was only ever one answer.
I decide to form all of my courage into the pattern, writing seamless poetry to express my feelings complementary to the music, and I hope to one day form the pattern into words, to make it mean the amount I hope for it to. Despite the courage, it quickly dissipates once my hand hovers over the entrance to him. I can't feel my fingers. I can't feel my hand. I can't feel my arms. I can't feel…
My hand slips, and then it's sent.
And I instantly regret my life.
And I instantly close the link.
And I instantly weep.
And I instantly hide under my bed.
And I instantly open the link.
And we instantly join together.