His face appeared, gray in the ghostlight of his phone, and I held a finger up to my mouth and whispered, “Shh,”
and we watched each other in silence, our barely discernible faces and bodies exposed through our screens’ dim light,
more intimate than I could ever be in real life.
As I looked at his face looking at mine, I realized the light that made him visible to me came mostly from a cycle:
Our screens were lighting each of us with light from the other’s bedroom.
I could only see him because he could see me.
In the fear and excitement of being in front of each other in that grainy silver light,
it felt like I wasn’t really in my bed and he wasn’t really in his.
Instead, we were together in the non-sensorial place, almost like we were inside the other’s consciousness,
a closeness that real life with its real bodies could never match.
After we hung up, he texted me. I like us. For real.
And somehow, I believed him.
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