She was happy at first. She wanted him gone. But after a while she desperately needed to know the simplest of things: is he okay? Is he alive and breathing? He didn't update his Flickr account anymore. Did he stop his photography after she left? His last Twitter message from two months ago read: "Something new or anything" and she didn't know what it meant.
497 emails between them. He couldn't stop himself from reading them again and again. When he found love with her, the words flowed. He dropped out of studying fiction writing because he had nothing to say, but not when he emailed her, he shared his whole life; and she wrote wildly creative replies; so personal, so beautiful.
She wished she hadn't deleted the emails. She just wanted to touch their history, just reach into it. She was with someone else now and the photo albums told a different story, but she couldn't help but wonder where he was, and whether he'd found love. She unblocked him from Facebook.
He'd searched for her name like a million times before, but this time it showed up. He didn't know whether or not he should message her, but he noticed her lack of privacy settings and couldn't resist taking a closer look. He went straight to 'Spain 2007', but it wasn't there. Instead there was 'New York 2011' with some other guy. He blocked her this time and vowed never to go near her again.
She found out he'd started a blog about gaming. She read reviews of the latest games, hoping to read something between the lines, but it wasn't to be. And he wasn't searchable on Facebook anymore. She tweeted him "hope you're ok xx" and hoped for something, anything.
He wrote "fine" and then blocked her.
She wondered when he became such an asshole.
And he wondered why it hurt so much.
And she wasted a whole weekend listening to love songs on YouTube.
And he killed a few hundred people on Modern Warfare 3
And it was purely by chance, that sunny afternoon, when they crossed paths at the train station. He took out his headphones. She looked up from her Kindle.