Voiceless Virtuality

.

We were talking;
On my screen Emoticons were flying in the place of every expression that crossed your face.
Speaking as if we were looking into each others eyes, despite being hidden by our digital disguise.
Our conversation was flowing,
Two instruments in a duet that just keeps going and going and going and-

Then.

As quickly as light turns to dark at the flick of a switch,
Your message bleeps in on custom alert,
each vibration wrapping around my chest, squeezing out of rhythm with my heart.

A sentence.

Whereas before each row of identical text had been strewn with bright faces, this one stood out stark black on white

Cold.

Blank.

You asked me

"What if I'm one of the bad ones?"

There is no need for those animated faces now.
I read you, as easily as I read the words.
But I can't understand.

"Bad" suggests you do pointless things for stupid reasons and without thought.

"Bad" implies the ability to hurt others and not give a damn.

"Bad" is an ugly, boring, simple label.

Do you yet understand why I can't understand how you can put one and one together and come out with three letters that couldn't have less to do with you?

My reply holds enough certainty for the both of us when I say

"You could never be one of the bad ones."

Full stop.

To show my sincerity is unarguable.
I don't tag on any "smilies" because I don't want you to think I love you lightly.
The silence that follows echoes like a wrong note - a break in our continuous harmony.
I strain to keep up with your panicked tempo-
Our music begins to play out of time as the strings in your piano draw too tight and I find myself pathetically asking

"Are you alright?"

Slanty face to try and release the pressure of such a weighty question; I'm making an enquiry, not forcing an interrogation.
Although I know the answer, like a doctor treats a patient, I feel if I know what is dragging you down, with a bungee cord of bandaged words I could pull you back up-

But I have no medical degree.

Instead, I wait on the next message as desperately as I would wait for the next peak on your heart monitor; anything to know you are more than a flat line.
When I said
"more than a flat line" I didn't expect such sudden convulsions of spasmodic pain - words barbed with distress and letters sharpened on hate.
Your words merge into a collage of panic and fear while you describe to me what I can't see -

Spinning like a record on repeat you say your head won't sit still.
Like an antsy child during maths class your eyes fidget until you're seeing the world sideways and among all of this confusion and upheaval you fall to your knees inside your mind, holding on tight like you're on an out of control ride and as your brain replicates the perfect imitation of a spinning top you have no idea how much I want to reach through our virtual third space of words and indescribable feeling to wrap my steadying hand around your mind and hold you -

Still.

There is a point
When voiceless virtuality doesn't cut it. But at this point in the night  and with this much distance between us to actually hold you isn't an option

With my back pressed against my wall I illustrate the way I feel backed into this metaphorical corner.
Wrapped under my duvet to muffle my speech I touch your name as I would brush your face with the cool end of my finger tip

I press

"Call."