At the same time, we held tight to the notion that distance was making our relationship stronger, and that compared to this, we’d be able to deal with whatever should come our way in the future. We cried on FaceTime a lot - we missed each other we were lonely. Time inched by when we were apart, yet flew past when we were together. Money always dictated the frequency of our visits. Alyssa looked happy too, and as I fell asleep at dawn, I knew that even if nothing came of this, I at least wanted to give it a shot.Īfter spending the summer together, living so many miles apart became much more difficult. My whole being felt at ease, and I was warm and happy in conversation with her. I felt safe with Alyssa in a way that I never had with anyone else. For the first time, I felt completely unashamed of my sexuality. We talked for four hours that night - until the sun was rising on my side of the world. Then, Alyssa shyly tucked a strand of shoulder-length blonde hair behind her ear while the corner of her mouth turned upward. When our eyes met, we both quickly looked away. She offered a nervous “hi” in the American accent I’d longed to hear. Days after our initial exchange, I accidentally hit the video call button on Snapchat (I swear it was a mistake!) to my surprise, she accepted the call and I was suddenly face-to-face with her in real time. Instead, I mused about how pretty Alyssa’s name sounded and welcomed days spent in almost constant dialogue with her.Īs I gleaned from her Tumblr posts, Alyssa was intelligent, cultured, and kind. Incredibly deflated, I tried to shatter the hesitant daydreams I crafted over the weeks I had spent endlessly scrolling her blog. I lived on the south coast of the United Kingdom, a whole 4678 miles away. She told me her name was Alyssa, that she was 21 years old and lived in Texas. But I tried to keep calm, and plucked up the courage to send her a reply. What I do remember is blushing in front of my computer screen, my heart racing, and feeling a familiar sense of embarrassment over the extent to which I liked this mysterious person. Whatever short sentence she wrote me is now a blur. My newfound cynicism inspired me to write dark, self-reflective fiction, and I started posting my work to a Tumblr blog I curated during my waking hours - 9 a.m. So I surrendered to my insecurities and decided that being in love was simply not something I was born to experience. I wasn’t feeling a strong physical attraction to anyone, for starters, and I was admittedly still struggling to accept myself. But trying to find love online, especially while grappling with the full-time job of hiding my sexuality from the outside world, seemed to be futile. I had begrudgingly accepted that I was, in fact, a lesbian, and spoken to a few girls on dating apps to find a sense of comfort in my sexuality. In the spring of 2016, still chronically sad, I became an insomniac. I dodged questions like that for far too long. Being “too busy” for a boyfriend was my go-to reply when friends asked me why I wasn’t dating anyone. For almost 10 years, I oscillated wildly between confusion and fear in regards to my sexuality, wrapping myself in lies as I went along.
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