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I entered a chat room and read the lines of conversation, staying silent. But, as was usual, my presence was announced in bold blue letters and a string of welcomes followed. As tempted as I was to respond, just this once, I ignored them and waited for the conversation to start up again. There were seventeen people in the room and they were asking each other what jobs they did and where they lived. I watched as two of them, a woman called Melissa and a man called Rich, disappeared to their own private chat room. There it was. So easy for other people.
There were more visitors than usual that night; Friday was a day that highlighted loneliness more than any other, aday people’s single status stared them in the face. But I had taught myself immunity to that feeling. It was all a matter of perspective, and what was being alone when there was so much worse out there? That didn’t mean I enjoyed it, though. I would have loved to approach someone, respond to the messages I was constantly sent, be normal. I had intended to start up conversations but so far my hands froze whenever I went to reply to a message.
Cradling my mug to warm my hands, I browsed through profile pictures, making up a story about who I believed each man to be. Of course, I was never right when I compared my ideas to the details they provided, but it helped pass the time.
A ping erupted from the laptop and I didn’t flinch. I was used to being sent private messages and that’s what I knew the sound was. But when the envelope flashed in the corner of the screen, I saw it was from a moderator. I knew they lingered around, making sure chat rooms were safe, but I had never been contacted by one. Perhaps they would tell me that I was no longer welcome on the site, that I wasn’t playing the game, getting involved, so they could do without my business. Taking a deep breath, I clicked the envelope.
Moderator34: Hey, u ok?
Confused, I exhaled and reread the message. I wasn’t getting kicked off. He or she was only asking if I was okay. But why? I had no idea if this was normal. Without thinking, my fingers began tapping the keyboard.
LeahH: I’m okay. Thanks for asking. How are you?
It was all I could think of to say.
Moderator34: Just worried about you! I’ve noticed you on here before but you don’t seem to want to talk to anyone??
So this was it. Iwasgetting kicked off. Quickly, I tried to think of an excuse for my lack of communication.
LeahH: Sorry. Bit shy.
The response came back immediately.
Moderator34: Believe me, you have no reason 2 b shy. Your photo is beautiful.I am male by the way, in case you were wondering…
LeahH: Are you allowed to say things like that?
Moderator34: Probably not but figured you were worth the risk
I should have stopped there. This had already gone too far. I wanted to type back that he was wrong, that I was one person who was not worth any kind of risk, but I didn’t. Instead I continued our conversation, allowing myself to bask in a few minutes of feeling normal, firing questions at him, without having any idea why I was so interested. I didn’t even know what he looked like.
He told me his name was Julian, he was thirty-six and lived in Bethnal Green. Begging me not to judge him by his job, he revealed that he was a civil servant and worked in Whitehall.
When he turned the questions on me, I began to get nervous. I looked around my flat, wondering just how much I wanted toshare with this stranger. My home was crammed from floor to ceiling with books, leaving little room for furniture. I made do with just a sofa and coffee table just so I could buy more books and not worry about where to put them. I could see the whole flat from the sofa because the kitchen and lounge were open plan. I always left the bedroom and bathroom doors ajar. It wasn’t a conscious decision, just something I always did.
I wondered what Julian would think of it here. Would he know straight away that I lived vicariously through the characters in the stories I read? Or the people in the chat rooms?
Ignoring my reservations, I continued talking to Julian and he began to intrigue me. His sense of humour jumped off the screen, his words creating a vivid picture of him. He seemed different to anyone I’d come across on the site so far, more natural, as if he wasn’t trying to do anything or be anyone other than himself. He was funny and charming without being creepy or desperate, and it made something in me ache. With sadness or longing, or a mixture of both.
I had to snap out of it. Nothing like this had happened to me in all the time I had browsed through profiles and lurked in chat rooms on Two Become One, and I didn’t like how I was starting to feel. Making an excuse that I had to go, I closed the website, not bothering to log off, and took my mug to the kitchen.
Although it had left me feeling empty, the encounter with Julian had distracted me from thinking about tomorrow. I knew nothing would happen other than my head swimming with memories, but every year was still as painful as those that had preceded it. As if no time had passed.
After making myself another cup of tea – a small comfort given the day I’d had – I took it over to the window, kneeling down so I could look out at Allfarthing Road. This was another way I spent my evenings when I wasn’t at the care home: watching life pass by outside my window. With a deep sigh, I toldmyself, as I did every night, that this was how it had to be. The difference was that now a tiny part of me wanted to fight against my sentence. I wanted to feel alive.
It was only when I was washing up before bed that I remembered I hadn’t opened my post. The pile remained on the kitchen worktop, and grabbing it, I sat down at the table. There were only three letters, and I binned the first one without opening it. I had no interest in special offers from a catalogue I’d never ordered from, or even heard of. I also ignored the letter I recognised immediately as a council tax bill; my payments were made by direct debit so I had nothing to worry about there.
It was the final envelope that puzzled me. It was pastel yellow and felt like a card. Strange. The only cards I ever received were from Mum on my birthday and at Christmas, but my birthday was months ago and it was too early for Mum’s Christmas card. And yellow wasn’t a Christmassy colour, was it? Red perhaps, green even, but not yellow.
The foreboding I’d felt walking home returned and I immediately knew I was holding something I wouldn’t want to see. But my hand still found the edge of the flap and tore it open. I slid out the card and stared at the glittery blue writing.
Happy Anniversary!
The picture of a champagne bottle with its cork popped, colourful ribbons bursting out of it, silently mocked me. Bile rose to my throat but I still opened the card. Inside, my name was written in thick black marker pen. Leah. There were no other words, only my first name. In writing that looked childish, every letter a different size.
I slipped it back in its envelope and flung it on the table, pushing it away with the heel of my palm, as if it could physicallyhurt me if I touched it more firmly. It balanced precariously on the edge of the table but didn’t fall to the floor. My flat seemed to grow even smaller, as if attempting to crush me, and I had to fight for breath.
My past was catching up with me.
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