Two strangers. One blog.
One writes in the dark, never knowing who reads.
The other reads in silence, never saying who she is.
Mia Michels is a journalism student who hides behind a fake name, spilling her thoughts like confessions at 3 a.m. Her pos...
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The blog was still lifeless. No matter how many times I refreshed the page with that ridiculous hope of finding something new, the emptiness stayed the same. There were no messages either. I turned back to the TV, but neither the news nor the recycled movies on an endless loop nor those shows where a handful of faces, caked in makeup until they were almost caricatures, pretended at joy could distract me.
Had it been the light flirting? I went back to my phone and read through each of the messages again. I'd been myself, though in a fairly tame version. From the way she'd replied, she hadn't seemed put off. I tapped the screen in a nervous rhythm, torn between writing to her or leaving it alone. I felt pathetic, like I was begging for attention. But what if something had happened to her?
Silversteel
Hey, I'm not here with a whip in hand to flog you for not giving me today's ration of sustenance. And without meaning to pry, I just wanted to check if you're okay.
The door swung open and Scott came in, his blue hair in chaos, his expression split evenly between fatigue and irritation.
"Some models can be so infuriating." He dropped onto the couch like someone who'd just survived a losing battle. "He actually had the nerve to say the problem wasn't him, it was my clothes."
He laughed, but it was that dry laugh he used when something hurt more than he wanted to admit, the kind he dressed up in irony.
"Can you believe it? My clothes, the idiot. He couldn't tell organza from burlap, crêpe from a hospital sheet, virgin wool from cheap polyester. He thinks continuous thread is the same as the crooked seams on a last-minute Halloween costume and mistakes Chantilly lace for living room curtain tulle. In short, mannequin hands and accountant's eyes."
I watched him with complete seriousness, like someone looking at a child who's just had their last piece of candy snatched away. His pout hadn't aged a day, and I ended up smiling, just a little, both at his delivery and the sharp precision of his insults.
"Are you laughing at me?" he said, feigning outrage, though there was a flicker of real hurt in his eyes. "I don't mock your blog romance, my goddess. Go ahead, enjoy your interactive novella with that second-rate writer who makes you believe her posts are 'Chekhov with Wi-Fi.'"
He got up, exasperated, and started pacing. He pointed at me with full theatrical flair.
"Keep liking her cheesy lines, add crying emojis, pretend it's an intellectual exchange. Sure, what's a few spoilers of your dignity compared to the glory of being her number one fan?"
He huffed, one hand on his hip in a gesture that could make any diva jealous.
"Meanwhile, I'll be here, surrounded by Egyptian cotton threads and clients who can actually tell prêt-à-porter from 'what I found at the outlet.' But don't worry, when you two win the Nobel Prize for anonymous comments, I'll lend you my golden scissors to cut the ribbon."
