Every Version of You I Met Online
The first time Aya talked to him, he was pretending to be someone else. Not in a dangerous way. Just in the sad, lonely internet kind of way. They met inside an online game during the pandemic. Back when everybody was trapped inside their homes pretending they were okay while the world outside kept falling apart quietly. Aya used to play late at night after work because silence became unbearable after midnight. Her father had just died that year. The apartment felt different without his coughing from the other room. Different without someone asking if she already ate. So she escaped online. That was where she met “Zero.” No real name. No face reveal. Just a player who always stayed in the background helping weaker teammates survive. At first, she barely noticed him. Then slowly, somehow, he became part of her nights. He always logged in around 11PM. Always reminded her to heal during fights because she kept forgetting. Always dropped rare items for her even when he clearly needed them too. One night she finally asked, “Bakit mo ba ako laging tinutulungan?” Zero replied after a few seconds. “Ewan. Mukha ka kasing pagod lagi kahit chat lang.” And somehow that sentence stayed with her longer than it should have. After that, they started talking outside the game. At first tungkol lang sa random things. Favorite pagkain. Songs they secretly loved. Movies they pretended to understand. Until eventually, the conversations became personal. Painfully personal. Aya told him things she never admitted to anyone in real life. How grief made her angry at random people. How she sometimes replayed old voice messages from her father just to hear him exist again. Zero listened. Always. No forced advice. No fake positivity. Just presence. And maybe that was the problem. Because loneliness makes simple kindness feel enormous. Months passed before Aya finally asked for a picture. Zero avoided the question immediately. Then another week. Another excuse. Eventually he admitted the truth. “I’m not who you think I am.” Aya laughed softly during the call. “Hindi naman kita iniisip na K-pop idol.” “No. I mean…” Silence. Then finally, “I lied about some things.” That was when she learned Zero was not twenty-six like he claimed. He was thirty-four. Divorced. And had a six-year-old daughter sleeping in the next room during most of their late-night conversations. Aya felt the world inside her shift slightly. Not because he was a bad person. But because suddenly he became real. Not just a comforting username glowing on her screen at 2AM. Real people came with complicated lives. With histories. With responsibilities. “You should hate me,” he whispered during the call. But Aya just stared at the ceiling quietly. Because the truth was, she didn’t. What hurt was not the lie. What hurt was realizing she had fallen in love with a version of someone that never fully existed. Still, she stayed. And somehow, after the truth came out, their connection became even more honest. For the first time, Zero started talking like a man instead of a carefully edited version of one. He admitted his fears. His failures. The guilt he carried after his marriage collapsed. And Aya? She admitted she was terrified of being abandoned by people she loved because grief already taught her how permanent losing someone could feel. They started video calling eventually. The first time she saw him, he looked tired. Not ugly. Not disappointing. Just human. And somehow that made her chest ache more. Because by then she already loved him in every version possible. The fake one. The honest one. The broken one. Then one night, months later, Zero didn’t log in. Neither the next day. Or the next. Aya tried not to panic. Until finally, after one week, a message arrived. > “My daughter got confined. I’m sorry. I couldn’t leave the hospital.” That was the moment Aya realized something terrifying: He was no longer just part of her online life. He had quietly become part of her real one. Eventually, life pulled them apart anyway. Not because they stopped loving each other. But because timing keeps ruining beautiful things. He lived in another country. Aya’s career started moving fast. His daughter needed stability. Aya still did not know how to build a future around someone who entered her life as a stranger behind a screen. So one night, after years of knowing each other, they said goodbye calmly. No screaming. No betrayal. Just two people staring at each other through lagging video call screens while pretending their hearts were not quietly breaking. Before ending the call, Zero smiled sadly and said, “Ang weird no? Nakilala kita nang hindi kita kilala.” After that, Aya stopped playing the game entirely. But sometimes, very late at night, she still opens it. Just to look at the empty friends list. Half-hoping one familiar username lights up green again.