The prospect of talking to her on the phone always made me giddy.  I felt nervously excited, and it pleased me.  It felt good.  I felt about thirteen-years-old.  I’d hold the phone for about ten minutes before I’d work up the courage to just make the call, and then hold my breath until she answered.  Once she did, everything was wonderful.  If her voicemail popped on, I could barely hide my disappointment long enough to leave her a message.  She wouldn’t call back and, in fact, rarely called me.  She had a phone issue; they terrified her.  Making calls, not receiving them.  I typically complied, but, sometimes, I was able to force her to make the call.  I loved the anticipation of not knowing at what moment the phone was going to ring.  I loved the return “Hey you!” to my “Hi.”  I worried that I could love her.

            The way we interacted, on the phone and online, was that of a couple of people who could do so for the rest of, well, forever.  Who we were fit.  I knew I was thinking all of that before we’d met, but… I only knew how she made me feel, how right it felt, even through ether and cyber space.  If we were in the same place, I would have done everything in my power to be with her.  But people don’t just break-up their relationships for an idea, a feeling they maybe could have for someone if they met.  They don’t do it for an obscure prospect.  Yet, I wanted to, and I couldn’t say what would happen if we did meet.  I couldn’t guarantee that I wouldn’t go back on my commitment to Henry if she proved to be even a fraction as wonderful as she already seemed to be.

I’ve always been an intelligent person.  Feeling so strongly about someone I’d never met was monumentally confusing.  I fought it, trying to reason with myself and point out all the reasons why it was so ridiculous.  It didn’t work.  She was all I could eat, sleep and breathe.  I wanted to share every moment with her, to come home and share my day and sit and hear all about hers.  The few friends I shared the situation with berated me, observing the absurdity of it.  I knew it was silly, that it made no sense.  But in no way did that help talk me out of it.  I felt more connected to her than I had to almost anyone in my real life, including Henry.  It was confusing and unacceptable.  And uncontrollable.

            Everyday things devastated me.  How she called me ‘Sunshine’ in a text message.  How she messaged me almost daily.  How we shared small, everyday details of life.  E-cards for no reason.  How into telling her stories she got.  I knew I was in trouble, and all I could do was sit back and watch myself slip away. 

I only felt a little guilty.  Henry and I weren’t terribly serious yet, though children had been discussed.  I more often felt badly when I let her down, when phone conversations were postponed because I was spending time with Henry.

            How do you explain to someone else that you’ve fallen in love with someone you have yet to meet?  I didn’t know how to explain it to myself, so for the most part I just tried to ignore it.  I was fine, until I talked to her, after which I would miss her until we talked again, if the break was short enough, or I’d again slip into discontented denial.  I turned my emotions off, became pragmatic.  It wasn’t a necessarily healthy way to be, but it got me through the days I didn’t hear from her but thought of her nonetheless.