Chapter Seven #4
I went to so many coffeehouses and bought so much coffee I don’t even remember if I purchased coffee there, but my mind wanders to the moment I met Matthew that day.
My brain flips through images of his smile and his firm handshake.
It makes me smile for the first time since I opened the notebook.
I find myself looking away from the pages as I let the images settle into my core.
And then it’s my turn. My turn to write back.
There are instructions for another dead-drop location, which actually piques my sense of wonder again.
This time I am to put it in the book return slot at the public library in town.
I actually find myself smiling again, wondering how my secret person can make that work?
I’m mildly enchanted by the mystery of it all again.
Which helps a lot because now I know exactly what my written reply will be.
I turn to the next available page and write the shortest, simplest message I’ve ever written:
“I want to text you.”
That’s it.
Five words.
After I’ve written the words, I feel the urge to elaborate, to explain what I mean and how I feel, but I fight hard against it.
One thing that’s inherent in our secret-person situation is the fact that we don’t share nuances or body language or tone of voice.
That’s part of what makes it feel so lonely, and so I let it hang, just let those five words be whatever they will be to my secret person.
I force myself to close the journal and seal it back in the envelope before I rethink my position on the matter and succumb to the urge to include more words.
Part of me wonders if it’s over, if this will be the last I’ll hear from my secret person.
Another part of me holds onto the thread of hope that my secret person will mystify me again with a way to text and communicate, rolling with the punches in a mysterious way.
After dropping the envelope into the library book drop on my way to work the next day, I’m back at my waiting game again. However, this time feels different.
My phone vibrates. It’s a message from Matthew.
“How does Saturday morning work for you? 9am? We can go get brunch at Walker's.”
I gaze at my phone for a long time, the words blurring in my stare.
Yes.
That’s my answer. I’d like to go to brunch with Matthew. So why don’t I start a response? I just stare.
My core tightens and I feel my heart in my chest, pounding against my ribs.
I don’t know how to think or what to feel.
So I don’t.
Instead of wonder or think or question, I just jump in full force: “Sounds perfect. I’ll meet you there,” my message reads.
“It’s a date, then.”
I think I actually gasp, staring at the words for so long the screen dims and I have to touch the message for it to reset. My breath is fracturing, my pulse racing. I force a deep breath, still staring. I feel like there’s been a miscommunication.
My phone vibrates again and a notification tells me that I have a GoodWord Message from my secret person. I tap the notification and I’m stunned.
“Will you go on a date with me?” the message reads. “We should go on a digital date. Something together but separate.” Then there are instructions on how to accept: I need to download an app where we can chat anonymously in real time and then we can work out a time to ‘meet, but not meet.’
My mind is swimming through the details.
In a moment of loneliness and despair, I had been ready to give up on this secret person relationship, ditch the journal and seek, well, something more separately-alone instead of together-alone.
But my secret person has risen to the challenge in a surprising, heartfelt way—while still preserving our secret relationship for the time being.
I’m enchanted.
The creativity of it all boggles me; my wish has been granted in a way where we can meet together without losing the mystery. It’s like we’ve leveled up, but as a natural next-step.
Also, my secret person has such a great way of placing the ball in my court. I’m challenged, but also given the nexus of control, like I can decline at any minute. I’m never forced into doing something, but constantly challenged and surprised.
It’s impossible to not be enchanted.
I download the app and follow the instructions without question. It feels almost magical, like nothing could possibly go wrong.
My phone pings almost immediately and I have a message from my secret person.
For being the first time we’ve actually been able to text in real time, our first messages are rather impersonal, almost nervously brief.
We lay out some logistics, day and time and our separate places to meet, or rather, not meet.
The brevity of our messages feels like there’s an unspoken agreement to save our texting for the date itself, like we don’t want to spoil the moment by texting now.
I’m both intrigued by the nuance and frightened by the implications.
“I look forward to it. Can’t wait to be together-separately.” I text.
“It’s a date, then.”
I stare at my screen and can’t stop smiling.