The Stranger Who Replied to My YouTube Comment

It begun with a late-night winding through overlooked videos.

You know the kind — when the world feels as well uproarious and all you need is the consolation of something aimless, or something as well important to explain.

I found myself observing an ancient acoustic cover of a tune I hadn’t listened in a long time — “Youth” by Girl. The video scarcely had 1,000 sees, transferred about a decade back by somebody named melancholystrings87. The outline was unstable, the lighting destitute, but the voice... it cut straight through the screen.

Something almost it felt like a memory I didn’t know I’d lost.

Without considering much, I written a comment:

“It’s 2025 and I’m still here. This adaptation feels like a stormy night I never came back from.”

I hit send. At that point closed the tab and went to sleep.

It could’ve finished there. But it didn’t.

The Reply

Three days afterward, I got a notification:

melancholystrings87 replied:

“You’re not alone. I recorded this on a night I didn’t need to return from either. Thank you for listening.”

My chest tightened.

It was uncommon sufficient for somebody to answer to a comment on a overlooked video. But this — this felt like somebody listened me. Not fair the words, but the space between them.

I answered back:

“Funny how a long time can pass and the feeling still waits. Did the rain ever halt for you?”

And then… silence.

For four days.

Then a unused reply:

“It did. At that point came back. But I learned how to move in it, inevitably. You?”

I sat gazing at that sentence for a long time.

Because no one had inquired me that in months. Perhaps years.

We Begun Talking

The answers turned into a string. The string turned into longer messages. We moved to e-mail after hitting the comment character constrain as well numerous times.

I learned their genuine title was El, brief for Eleanor (or Elias — they said it depended on the day). They lived on the other side of the world — a calm coastal town in Unused Zealand. They’d transferred the video at nineteen, shattered and half-drunk, sitting in their parents’ carport with nothing but a guitar and a split iPhone 6.

I told them around me. That I worked a boring work area work. That music utilized to be my elude but I hadn’t picked up my guitar in a long time. That their voice reminded me of my mother’s murmuring in the kitchen, when life was simpler.

El replied:

“Maybe this is life attempting to murmur once more. Through both of us.”

The Association Deepened

We started trading songs.

I’d send them Spotify joins at 2 a.m.

They’d answer with transcribed verses checked and connected as PDF.

Sometimes we didn’t type in anything. Fair a interface. Fair a timestamp.

2:13 — the way it breaks here made me think of you.

It wasn’t sentimental. But it was intimate.

The kind of closeness that didn’t require names to exist.

There was a consolation in knowing somebody, some place, was hearing the same note — and feeling the same ache.

A Sudden Silence

Then one day… El ceased replying.

No caution. No last note. Fair — gone.

I held up for days. Checked their YouTube channel. The video was still there. Our string of comments too.

I emailed.

No bounce-back.

No response.

I begun pondering if I had envisioned the entirety thing.

Did I venture my depression onto a stranger?

Had it all been a advanced dream, born out of 2 a.m. wistfulness and as well much silence?

Months passed.

I halted going by the video.

Stopped checking my inbox for a answer that never came.

Until one morning, I woke up to an email.

The subject line basically said:

“2:13 — Still considering of you.”

It was from El.

“I’m too bad I vanished. Things got overwhelming. I didn’t need to drag you into my storm. But I missed our music. Are you still listening?”

I gazed at that message like it was the final page of a novel I thought had ended.

I replied:

“I never stopped.”

And fair like that, the tune returned.

We Made Something Together

Over the following few weeks, we begun collaborating.

El would send guitar circles. I’d compose verses. We’d record harsh tracks on our phones and consolidate them utilizing free apps. It was chaotic. Blemished. But beautiful.

We made four songs.

Uploaded them beneath a modern YouTube channel: ThreadSongs Anonymous.

We never appeared our faces. Fair black-and-white visuals of rain, note pads, split sidewalks, blurring sunsets.

And individuals listened.

Not numerous. But enough.

One day, a comment showed up beneath our to begin with song:

“It’s 2030 and I’m still here. This form feels like a stormy night I never came back from.”

I smiled.

History rehashing itself — in the best way.