"Hello, care to chat?"
We had no mutual friends.
Turn chat offline.

"So you like writing?"
You've read my About Me.
View his profile.

"How are you? Busy?"
You poked me.
I poked back.

"I just want us to be friends."
One pending friend request.
Confirmed.

"You have nice eyes."
He commented on a picture.
Like.

"Your recent status update,
have a problem?"
Sad smiley.

"You can tell me."
I confessed to you.
Post status: -feeling happy.

"Good morning pretty."
Long chat replies.
Heart sticker.

"I love you."
And I love you too.
Status: in a relationship.

"I'm sorry, I've been busy lately."
It's fine.
Status: It's complicated.

"I didn't mean to hurt you."
You should have thought about that.
Unfriend.

"Please forgive me."
Seen.

my love for you is an idea
brought forth by a collage of ideas
pinned on a bulletin board
built with long, late hours at night,
in a tiny chatbox of mutualness
vibrating hope in every ping!

those ideas of starry escapades,
pizzerias,
ice creams and waffle cones,
and coffee when it gets sleepy
the very idea of you
just kept me wide awake

but that bulletin board
of fragile hopes and dreams
broke! it's post-it notes fell
freely. lightweight paper scattered
on the floor getting stepped
by the feet of reality

the hot-air balloon of idea
landed finally on the ground
unsafe, breaking
because it shouldn't have left
it shouldn't have been ignited
it shouldn't have flew

all of you I've loved
is an idea
I built so bitterly
for you made no move
and I made no step--
a tragic idea, indeed.

I know we've never talked in person;
Dumb, right?
Though once we open the chatbox
We'll talk like long met acquaintances

I know I've said a lot of spontaneous ****,
You'll patch them up with yours;
The moment you typed those random words
It instantly meant something to me

I told you when I wanted to die.
I told you that would be the last.
Yet you peered through me,
Saved me from something I thought I wanted.

It ought to be awkward;
A way I can't fathom,
Yet you talk like nothing's changed;
Comfort I needed.

We talked boring days and sleepless nights,
We talked shows and music,
We talked about lives,
We talked about us.

"Hey"
"Eyyyyy"
"Thanks for keeping up with my ****"
"It's cool I talk about random **** too"

"Hey"
"What's up?"
"I hope I'm not botheting you"
"Hey, it's okay"

"Hello"
..."hey"
"gotta go"
"wait, I—"
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
*Never mind

Lying by the windowsill, it feels lonely, true?
The sky took a somber turn but you've been here since it was blue, you came in exactly at 3 'o' 2 but here we are, my love.

Resisting the cold wood you get up and stare, your eyes now dare to look around and care, two books lie in a pair over your table antique and rare. You were supposed to welcome morning with eyes bare, and here we are, my love.

Riffle through the pages attempting to learn,
Yet in some sorrowful heat you burn, believe it or not you're thinking of someone. The one who calls you hon, it flutters through your memory like some sort of gun, yet two whole chapters of the first book remain undone, and here we are, my love.

Pick up your phone the chatbox yells some name, you look through an image and still feel the same. Love flutters in mind but you  send something lame, it's not you but the fear of getting judged is to be blamed. A "Hey" with a "Bae" is what you wish to claim, which is rightful and no shame, and here we are, my love.

Electricity's out and so is the lamp, your emotions and wire connections both seem to be jammed, though suddenly somewhere around 12 AM, you utter an unusual but seemingly-happy "****!", a reply to a text saying, "Here I am!" 9% battery thereafter 9 hours of Instagram, and yet here we are, my love.❤️

- Utkarsh Upadhyay