As I sit in London Heathrow Airport, my mind is racing—never in a million years did I imagine I would take the leap. I am about to travel 3,459 miles to meet a guy I have never met.
Crazy, right? But the only crazy thing about it is that I feel like I know him better than I know myself.
For the last seven months we have been messaging back and forth, FaceTiming, texting, but it all started when Mark slid into my DMs one fateful night.
Seven months ago
Getting in from work, I kicked off my heels and went to the fridge, grabbing the bottle of white. I got myself a glass and poured generously.
I’m fed up with my life; it’s just like Groundhog Day—I wake up, I go to work; I come home, Netflix, bed, and repeat. I never thought that at twenty-five this would be my life.
It’s a Friday night, I should be out enjoying myself. I can’t even remember the last time I went out and let my hair down. Not to sound conceited, but I can grab the male attention.
I’m five feet, seven inches, I have long brown hair, big brown eyes, and curves in all the right places. I know exactly how to dress for my body shape.
But here’s the problem: it’s the men I attract. How do I put it nicely…they’re all dicks. They’re either married, have a girlfriend, or only want a one-night stand.
Don’t even get me started on online dating. The conversation starts well and then boom! The ever-unwanted dick pic pops up in my inbox. That is not a metaphor.
I get dressed in my comfies and curl up on the sofa with the rest of my bottle of wine, along with some crispy shredded chicken from The Peking Garden.
I get lost in the movie Guardians of the Galaxy. Have to admit, Chris Pratt is looking mighty fine these days. I look down at my phone and see it’s nearly midnight.
As I clear the empty bottle and Chinese cartons away, my phone tings. What the hell, who is messaging me at this time of night? I pick up my phone as the screen lights up.
Curiosity gets the better of me and I open the message.
What the hell, this could pass some time. I wasn’t even tired anyway.
I patiently wait as I see the word “typing” in the bottom right corner.
Here we go, well, let’s have some fun with this.
I decide to open another bottle of wine and get comfy on the couch. It’s been a while since someone has slid into my DMs, but what happens next is no surprise.
So I play along.
Well, of course that’s what you want. So I play along, fully clothed, turn the lights off, take a picture, and send. Then I receive the snappy reply of, “I can’t see, it’s dark.” Having had my fun, I sent one last reply.
Next time comes the “Hi there, you’re beautiful,” some light conversation, and then the real reason they message: “I need help, can you get me a wallet card?”
Here we go, yeah, sure, no problem, let me just look into that for you, BLOCK. As I reminisce about my experiences, I see Mark_Hart 84 has replied again.
Just as I was waiting on some sexy reply back, his next words shocked me.
Well, this was new to me. Is this some freaky role-play? I struggled with what to say. I typed and deleted at least four times before he beat me to it.
Okay, chalk this one up as weird. I climb into bed and try to fall asleep, but something about this has rattled me. Tossing and turning, every so often I look at the clock. When it’s just after 3 a.m. I can’t take it, I grab my phone and open the conversation, re-reading it trying to make sense of it. I finally decide to send him a reply. It can be the only explanation. I finally decided to send him a reply.
It’s been a long week at work and I’m not in the mood to be dealing with people right now. I decided after work to go drown my sorrows at the bar.
Tomorrow is going to be a shit day. It was supposed to be one of the happiest days of my life.
But that was until I got home from work a few weeks back to find my fiancee with her bags packed, telling me she no longer loved me and the wedding was off.
My gut told me there was someone else, so I pleaded with her to tell me the truth and four words collapsed my entire world: “I love someone else.”
I couldn’t quite understand my reaction at the time. I was calm, I was collected.
She handed me back the engagement ring I had bought her, picked up her bags, and walked out of our apartment without looking back.
As I stood clutching the engagement ring, I should have realized this was the calm before the storm.
Looking back that night Blake walked out was the beginning of what I’m guessing was the five stages of grief.
The first few days I was in stage one, denial. In my head she was only gone on a mini-break and would be back. A lot of her stuff was still in the apartment, so nothing felt different.
Then a few days after that, she came by, boxed her life up, and she loaded up a van. As I looked around my half-empty apartment, that’s when stage two hit—anger.
I was pissed at everyone and everything. No one could get through to me when they told me it would get better, that I was better off without her.
When we had to organize the canceling of the wedding, stage three began—bargaining. I begged Blake to make things work; I suggested counseling.
I said I would make more of an effort, but she just kept saying that it was too late. That led to where I am today, and right now and it’s safe to say I am between stage three and stage four, depression.
As I finish up at the office, I make my way to the bar. I grab a stool and ask the bartender for a whiskey and to keep them coming. The more I drink, the more I miss Blake.
Pulling out my phone, I scroll through Instagram. I look back at our old photos; the drinks were ruling my head when I decided to send her a DM.
It was like a truth serum, I just blurted out the first thing that came to me. When she replied, I was surprised at how open she was to talking; normally she would just dismiss me.
As the conversation went on, I realized it was a huge mistake and tried to backtrack, saying I shouldn’t have messaged her.
At that point, I realized that I needed to stop drinking, go home, and sober up. Throwing a few bills down on the bar, I pull myself together and grab an Uber home.
As I sat there looking out the window, I thought about that word, “home.” It didn’t feel like home anymore; everything reminded me of her.
As I entered the apartment, I looked around and it just felt cold and empty. I looked at the clock and it had just turned 10 p.m. I made a fresh pot of coffee to try and sober myself up.
I heard my phone ping on the counter, so I went over and picked it up. I have a notification. I have a message from Blake.
I brace myself for Blake’s response. When I open the message, my heart stops. The wrong person. I click on the picture at the top of the screen.
How did I not notice I was messaging the wrong girl? The only thing that is the same is the long brown hair and the same first name. It would appear that blake.blair.uk is not my ex.
She is beautiful. Thankfully her profile isn’t private, although there isn’t much content.
When I was searching for MY Blake, I must have accidentally clicked this Blake and in my drunken state messaged her instead. Fuck, what do I say, do I ignore her?
No, that wouldn’t be fair. Without her replying, I would never have realized I fucked up and messaged the wrong person.
Hovering my fingers over the keys, I think long and hard about what I want to write.
Setting my phone back down, I’m surprised when I hear my phone ping again.
Picking it up, the other Blake has replied.
I feel my body heat with embarrassment.
I laugh to myself. If anything, the girl has a sense of humor, and for the first time in a long time she takes my mind off the shit show that is my life.
I don’t know why but I didn’t want to end the conversation with her, so as I drink my coffee, still feeling the effects of the alcohol, I decide to use it as Dutch courage and keep talking with this Blake.
I smile as I write back to her.
I make a mental note to become accustomed to the UK time difference before I send her off one last message.
And just like that, the conversation ends with,
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