HI!
Five years ago, today, while scrolling through my social media followers, I once again paused on the profile of an angel.
She was a German living in Paris. Exotic. An unreachable dream.
I mean, a multi-published author, blonde, young and beautiful, with her bedroom window opening up to the Eiffel Tower. I looked down at my keyboard missing three keys and wondered: "What if?"
What if I could meet her, by accident or in passing. Would I have the courage to say hello, and if so, would she even give me the time of day?
Separated and living in a room in my brother's house, how could I ever stand a chance? Nevermind that being unemployed at the time meant not having the means to travel to Europe, I wouldn't even be able to buy her a cup of coffee if the miracle ever happened.
I'd been researching date sites for a book idea (No, I didn't sign up for any, because again, I didn't have an income and was unable to get past viewing pictures) and I was shocked at some of the whack-jobs out there. So, while still staring at her smile, I thought of how strange it might seem for her to get a message from someone halfway around the world. She'd probably see me as totally daft. Or a psycho stalker. Desperate.
I suppose that in a way I was in fact desperate. Desperate for company. Desperate to have someone to talk to. Desperate to be be able to discuss my writing with a person that wouldn't brush aside the fact that I was already busy on my third novel; see it as insignificant. So I closed my eyes. Said a silent prayer which probably went along the lines of "Please don't let her laugh at me," and remembered something from a movie I'd watched about having 20 seconds of insane courage. A short time span in which you had permission to throw caution to the wind and do something utterly insane.
My mouse cursor hovered, then clicked on her message box. I typed two letters. Staring at my screen, I waited for the timer to count down. While it got closer and closer to my deadline, I wondered what the hell I was doing.
"Hi."
A simple word that didn't exactly challenge the boundaries of communication, nor set an example of how brilliant a writer I thought I was. Five seconds left, and still an all-consuming fear that I was about to make a total fool of myself. But it couldn't be that bad. I mean, if my message turned out to be the best laugh she'd had in weeks, at least it was good for something.
That thought made me wonder what her laugh sounded like. Soft as a feather brushing my ear, contained and civilized, or the piercing honk of a horn?
It didn't matter, I'd never get to hear it.
My time had almost run out, and in a way I wanted it to. I wanted a reason not to put myself out there, even if only in conversation. I was happy in my tiny hole, typing away on a broken keyboard. It was my saving grace. My peace. My comfort zone. My healing.
But I'm a writer, right? Just like her. And writers follow writers, and therefore have something in common. I followed her and she followed me. I couldn't remember which came first. So why shouldn't I reach out? At least it wasn't the typical: "Hello, and thanks for following, now buy my book!"
I pushed SEND, and immediately started imagining her face when she read my feeble message, and then also her response if she even took the time to send one. Possible words and sentences drew straws in my mind, with the most likely comeback from her being two words - the first starting with F, and the second being OFF. I hoped she wouldn't add an exclamation mark. That would be embarrassing.
Anyway, it was done, and I was officially the daftest arse on social media.
My wait for a response more than likely involved a glass of liquid with a percentage. Probably more than one. I eventually decided to put her out of my mind and continue writing, but couldn't. Maybe a walk. Get some fresh air. So I did, and when I returned, I had received a message.
I clicked on it and her face appeared. The same smile I had seen over and over and over. Unchanged. Happy. And then I took a deep breath and read her answer. Writers are able to use an array of words to describe just about anything under the sun, but at that precise moment, I couldn't think of a single one to describe the way I felt. There was no F followed by an OFF, or a rejection in any form. The message in front of me was simple.
One word.
Two letters.
"Hi."
Five months later I stood at the airport, nervous as hell, and waited to see the woman I had fallen in love with. A man next to me asked what she was like, and without thinking I answered "amazing." You see, even though we'd never met, we knew each other inside out. During the time from her response until standing in the arrivals hall, I had read her books and she had read mine. She writes so much better than me. We went from Twitter's limited characters to e-mail. We had movie nights over Blackberry's BBM: lying with our phones next to us and watching together, her on her laptop and me on mine.
So I stood there not knowing what her hair smelt like, the smoothness of her skin or how her eyes glistened in the sunlight, but I waited for someone I knew better than myself. Because in those months, our souls had touched, hugged, and made love.
So today, the 24th of May, will always be our official "Hi" day as, five years later, we have been married for two years and share a bundle of joy in the form of our blue-eyed boy.
Natalie, my love, you will always be the co-writer of our life together, a story I hope never ends.
She was a German living in Paris. Exotic. An unreachable dream.
I mean, a multi-published author, blonde, young and beautiful, with her bedroom window opening up to the Eiffel Tower. I looked down at my keyboard missing three keys and wondered: "What if?"
What if I could meet her, by accident or in passing. Would I have the courage to say hello, and if so, would she even give me the time of day?
Separated and living in a room in my brother's house, how could I ever stand a chance? Nevermind that being unemployed at the time meant not having the means to travel to Europe, I wouldn't even be able to buy her a cup of coffee if the miracle ever happened.
I'd been researching date sites for a book idea (No, I didn't sign up for any, because again, I didn't have an income and was unable to get past viewing pictures) and I was shocked at some of the whack-jobs out there. So, while still staring at her smile, I thought of how strange it might seem for her to get a message from someone halfway around the world. She'd probably see me as totally daft. Or a psycho stalker. Desperate.
I suppose that in a way I was in fact desperate. Desperate for company. Desperate to have someone to talk to. Desperate to be be able to discuss my writing with a person that wouldn't brush aside the fact that I was already busy on my third novel; see it as insignificant. So I closed my eyes. Said a silent prayer which probably went along the lines of "Please don't let her laugh at me," and remembered something from a movie I'd watched about having 20 seconds of insane courage. A short time span in which you had permission to throw caution to the wind and do something utterly insane.
My mouse cursor hovered, then clicked on her message box. I typed two letters. Staring at my screen, I waited for the timer to count down. While it got closer and closer to my deadline, I wondered what the hell I was doing.
"Hi."
A simple word that didn't exactly challenge the boundaries of communication, nor set an example of how brilliant a writer I thought I was. Five seconds left, and still an all-consuming fear that I was about to make a total fool of myself. But it couldn't be that bad. I mean, if my message turned out to be the best laugh she'd had in weeks, at least it was good for something.
That thought made me wonder what her laugh sounded like. Soft as a feather brushing my ear, contained and civilized, or the piercing honk of a horn?
It didn't matter, I'd never get to hear it.
My time had almost run out, and in a way I wanted it to. I wanted a reason not to put myself out there, even if only in conversation. I was happy in my tiny hole, typing away on a broken keyboard. It was my saving grace. My peace. My comfort zone. My healing.
But I'm a writer, right? Just like her. And writers follow writers, and therefore have something in common. I followed her and she followed me. I couldn't remember which came first. So why shouldn't I reach out? At least it wasn't the typical: "Hello, and thanks for following, now buy my book!"
I pushed SEND, and immediately started imagining her face when she read my feeble message, and then also her response if she even took the time to send one. Possible words and sentences drew straws in my mind, with the most likely comeback from her being two words - the first starting with F, and the second being OFF. I hoped she wouldn't add an exclamation mark. That would be embarrassing.
Anyway, it was done, and I was officially the daftest arse on social media.
My wait for a response more than likely involved a glass of liquid with a percentage. Probably more than one. I eventually decided to put her out of my mind and continue writing, but couldn't. Maybe a walk. Get some fresh air. So I did, and when I returned, I had received a message.
I clicked on it and her face appeared. The same smile I had seen over and over and over. Unchanged. Happy. And then I took a deep breath and read her answer. Writers are able to use an array of words to describe just about anything under the sun, but at that precise moment, I couldn't think of a single one to describe the way I felt. There was no F followed by an OFF, or a rejection in any form. The message in front of me was simple.
One word.
Two letters.
"Hi."
Five months later I stood at the airport, nervous as hell, and waited to see the woman I had fallen in love with. A man next to me asked what she was like, and without thinking I answered "amazing." You see, even though we'd never met, we knew each other inside out. During the time from her response until standing in the arrivals hall, I had read her books and she had read mine. She writes so much better than me. We went from Twitter's limited characters to e-mail. We had movie nights over Blackberry's BBM: lying with our phones next to us and watching together, her on her laptop and me on mine.
So I stood there not knowing what her hair smelt like, the smoothness of her skin or how her eyes glistened in the sunlight, but I waited for someone I knew better than myself. Because in those months, our souls had touched, hugged, and made love.
So today, the 24th of May, will always be our official "Hi" day as, five years later, we have been married for two years and share a bundle of joy in the form of our blue-eyed boy.
Natalie, my love, you will always be the co-writer of our life together, a story I hope never ends.
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