Chapter 4 - The Boy with the Invisible Message

I don't know if life is a chain of coincidences, or if some people are simply meant to pass briefly through our lives just to leave behind a soft but unforgettable mark.

I was barely seventeen, had just started university, still in those early semesters where everything is new, where you're just beginning to learn how to navigate a world that feels way too big for you.

At that time, we were taking private classes at a fairly well-known institution in the city. I remember that one day, after class ended, I decided to stop by an internet café.

It was a different era. Facebook had just appeared, and most people still used Hi5 or Messenger. It was a time when socializing felt simpler, purer—or at least that's how it felt to me. Technology still held a sense of mystery, and we were still innocent to it.

I was sitting in one of those old booths, browsing between social networks and emails, when suddenly, a pop-up message appeared on the screen:

"You're beautiful, if you don't mind me saying so."

I froze. I literally couldn't breathe for a few seconds. Who was it? How did that message even appear? It wasn't a Facebook notification, or Hi5, or an email...

It was a direct message on the screen, like those internal alerts that pop up when the internet café administrator wants to get your attention.

I didn't know how to react. I felt invaded, but also flattered. Curiosity outweighed fear, so I replied.

My response was brief, more from confusion than anything else, but he kept writing. He told me he was the guy managing the place and that ever since I walked in, he hadn't been able to stop looking at me. That he thought I was pretty, and that there was something special about me.

I admit it: my curiosity started to grow—but not because of the compliment. I was intrigued by how someone could have that level of control over the system, to send a message like that without social media, without prior contact.

What started as a simple phrase turned into almost three hours of conversation.

We talked about everything: music, movies, university, even silly things.

I don't know when it happened, but I ended up giving him my phone number. To this day, I still wonder if it was a spontaneous act or if I simply got carried away by the feeling of being special to someone.

From that day on, the messages began.

He would email me, send me quotes, songs, even little texts that I still keep. I have a folder in my inbox with his name on it. They're still there, untouched, like small memories of a phase in my life that never repeated itself.

I remember one message in particular—full of sweet words and innocent promises. It said:

"Hello princess, I don't know if you care about what I'm about to write, but I wanted to tell you that I haven't stopped thinking about you for a single moment. I don't know what's happening to me, but I think about you too much. Maybe it's too much for a girl I barely know. I don't know where this will lead, but I wish it could go far enough to let me enjoy your love. I just want to give you these words; they're from a song, but I want to gift them to you..."

His emails were long, full of phrases that might sound cheesy to anyone else, but to me—seventeen years old, heart full of dreams—they felt like caresses to the soul.

Sometimes he'd write me in the middle of the night. Other times he'd apologize for not writing sooner and tell me about his days, his dreams, how he imagined a life with me—even though we barely knew each other.

I only agreed to see him once.

It was in a neighborhood park, outdoors, with no pressure or expectations.

When I arrived, I saw him there—nervous, pacing, hands in his pockets, and wearing a shy smile he could barely hold.

He was just a boy, not much older than me, with a gentle look in his eyes that completely disarmed me.

I walked up to him, and he barely lifted his gaze. We greeted each other, sat for a while, and talked about random things.

He was clearly uncomfortable—not because he was rude, but because he was truly nervous. His hands were sweaty, cold, and trembling slightly every time he moved them.

There were no kisses, no long hugs.

The most that happened was that he held my hands for several minutes and looked at me with a tenderness I had never felt before. He apologized—I'm not sure for what, maybe for being nervous, or feeling clumsy.

His face was flushed, his words stumbled, and I... I didn't know what to do.

Sometimes I wonder why I didn't kiss him.

Why I didn't respond to that sweetness, why I let that story remain unfinished.

We never saw each other again, never crossed paths after that.

The messages faded over time. Life went on. Other people came. Other experiences filled my days...

But somewhere in a forgotten folder in my inbox, his words are still there—his innocent texts, his declarations of a love that was just born and died in innocence.

Now, remembering it, I realize that not every story needs to end in passion or heartbreak.

Some stories just stay suspended—like a whisper, like a brief moment that made you smile... and that's valid too.

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