We Fell in Love in 37 Messages: A Digital Romance That Was Real Until It Wasn’t

We Fell in Love in 37 Messages: A Digital Romance That Was Real Until It Wasn’t

It started with a typo.

I was responding to a stranger’s comment in a photography group on Facebook. Something about the light in their photo reminded me of the way morning sun hits my kitchen window — soft and golden, like the start of something new. I typed, “Beautiful capture. Feels like a Sunday morning.”

But I hit send too soon. “Sunday” autocorrected to “sundae.”

“Feels like a sundae morning?” a reply popped up. “What does that taste like — sweet regret?”

I laughed. And that’s how it began.

His name was Arman. He was a hobbyist photographer with a love for natural light, jazz records, and coffee brewed in silence. He lived in Lahore. I was in Karachi. A thousand kilometers apart, but somehow his words crossed the distance faster than anything physical ever could.

We didn’t talk every second of every day — but when we did, it was meaningful. Each message was like a thread in something that felt fragile but beautiful. By Message 6, I knew his favorite poet (Rumi). By Message 12, he knew about the scar on my left wrist and the story I’d never told anyone else — about the night I almost gave up on everything.

He didn’t flinch. He just replied:

"Sometimes the deepest wounds leave the most honest marks."

That was Message 13.

I remember Message 18 vividly. It simply said:

"You feel like the silence I never want to end."

I saved that one in my Notes app. Read it before bed like a lullaby.

We never said we were “in love.” But the spaces between our words — the pauses, the half-sentences — they held something. Something fragile. Something hopeful. Something very much like love.

We started planning a meetup. Maybe a weekend in Islamabad. Neutral ground. He offered to drive halfway. I said I’d bring snacks. It felt... real. Like the kind of real you don’t question until it slips away.

Message 29 came two days late.

“Sorry. Work’s been crazy.”

And then silence.

No blue ticks. No typing bubble. Just absence.

At first, I made excuses for him. Maybe he lost his phone. Maybe something happened. But days passed. A week. I messaged again — nothing. I stared at our chat, scrolling back through old messages, rereading his metaphors and quiet confessions, wondering if I had imagined it all.

Finally, Message 30.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disappear. I just... I got scared.”

I should’ve asked: Scared of what? But I didn’t.

I just replied, “It’s okay. I missed you.”

We picked up where we left off. But the rhythm was offbeat. Messages were shorter. Less poetic. He stopped using punctuation. I started overthinking every emoji. Was the heart still platonic? Was the “lol” still real?

By Message 35, I realized I was talking to someone who had already left.

Not physically. Emotionally. Digitally. Slowly.

Then, Message 36:

“I think we rushed it. Or maybe I wanted to feel something that wasn’t really there.”

And Message 37:

“I hope you find someone who stays.”

That was the last message.

No drama. No blocking. Just quiet. Just gone.

Now, months later, I still remember the feeling. Not of the heartbreak — but of the build-up. The way a person you’ve never touched can still hold a part of you. The way digital love — typed, sent, read — can still be deeply human.

I sometimes revisit that chat. Not to mourn it, but to remind myself what connection can feel like — even in a brief, passing form. Like the scent of jasmine after a summer storm. There, then gone. But somehow still with you.

We fell in love in 37 messages. It was real. Until it wasn’t.

But for those 37, I believed in magic again.

And maybe, for now, that’s enough.

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