By Julia Corzo

I always thought she was merely my virtual angel, the darling that made my days that much brighter, but we were each other’s.

“...standing between earth and heaven, and in [her] hand a drawn sword stretched out...”

At 14 years old I was a depressed romantic.

I would walk around the house dazed, haunting the rooms. I thought of myself as this once-in-a-lifetime dreamer. An excuse to sit up in the clouds as life passed on under me. I had decided my reality was not desirable. There were no great acts of love, no magical moments saved just for me.

Romanticization is a curse. I would spend hours as a child reading novels — Pride and Prejudice, Emma, Song of Achilles, Sleeping Beauty — searching for the promised love story in every other book I read, putting them down if I couldn’t get my fill of love satiated. I didn’t have many friends as a child, and even less people to really talk to. I spent hours putting myself into the place of different characters, wondering when I was going to get swept away. It was easier to live in their places. The only way to interact with the world, I decided, was vicariously.

I locked myself into that rule. I existed as a lump of laundry, half-opened makeup, and dishes piled up — an immovable object surrounded by half-heartedly taped up posters and stringy fairy lights. My interactions were limited to the ones I could experience through my laptop.

I felt like the girls I read about online, the ones who would become someone else entirely when the sun set. They would set out to meet lovers, or fight exhausting battles against villains, or leave to find some blood for dinner. I felt like part of a coalition of alter egos. I was also setting out to my double life; I let life flow through me once the house went quiet, and nobody was there to hear me.

I spent hours on my laptop, my one true love. I rarely felt seen, but the grainy screen of my laptop and the mushy keys on my keyboard felt like a comforting hug after a long day. As a depressed romantic, I thought there was something mysteriously enticing about being a creature of the night.

One night, I decided to take a risk on a sketchy video-chatting website. I thought it would be a silly meet-cute if I met someone on it. In the midst of the voyeuristic old men and smarmy little boys, I met a girl.

As I leaned down to grab my charger, hidden away from the camera, I heard a soft voice. "Hello?"

I straightened my back immediately and focused on the grainy screen. Her hair was choppy, short, and her eyes were huge. I still remember how she got close to the camera, sticking an eye out as if she was inspecting me, and then — a smile.

I felt a flash of white light pierce through my heart in that moment, connecting me to the girl on the other side of the screen. I could feel her movements through my laptop; I could sense her breaths in the buzzes.

I thought it fitting that my one true love had a beautiful girl filling up its screen. She introduced herself as Ava.

I saw her as my savior, this manifestation of my desires. We didn’t talk much at first, but whenever she would reply, I’d feel a jolt of electricity prick me through the screen. Eventually, our correspondence grew more frequent.

If I was a solid, immovable object, she would be the opposite — plush, languid, and ever moving. There was a sweetness to her, a softness I’d never felt in my life. Her laugh was melodic. I would listen to her and feel my heart zizz under my chest.

I fell head-first into her. She was everything I obsessed over, a beautiful girl with a seemingly assured sense of self — reflective in her clothing and mannerisms. Everything about her seemed to come together so cleanly, like a clear-cut characterization. Even her hometown, small and located on a mountain, made her more enticing.

She resurrected me from the half-dead existence I had taken up. Our connection didn’t need physical closeness. When I opened my laptop and spoke with her, I would feel the lights around me flicker to life. I was completely enraptured by my screen when she was on it. I spent hours and hours on a call with her that felt like a liminal space to co-exist in. She was a virtual angel on the other side of the line, and the computer’s glow was akin to her halo.

I couldn’t talk to people in the “real world” and yet, talking to her on my short-circuiting laptop felt freeing. She was separated from those in my life I tried desperately to keep out. I just wanted to be in my room, alone. She fit my narrative, existing only in my room, allowing me to be alone where I was safe.

What I didn't know, though, is I was the same escape for her as she was for me. Where my world was contained on purpose, hers was small. She once told me about how “cool” she thought I was, how I was so blatantly myself with my dyed hair, lacy tops, and seemingly growing eyeliner. She didn’t grow up in a community that had normalized the look I had. I realized all my time boarded up in my room made me forget about what the outside thought of certain things. My room was my own, hers was not.

As she spoke, I realized I'd let my romantics get the better of me.

I had crowned her as my saving grace, combining the girl with my image of the Angel. The buzzing heartbeat under my chest sped up, and as the little halo faded off her pixelated face, I got close to the camera. I stuck an eye out, as if to inspect her, and smiled. Her room looked dark, and her eyes looked tired. I started to notice little things, like the uncapped eyeliner sitting on her desk, the discarded clothing on her floor — she was just like me. She shot back a hopeful smile, watched me as I realized that she was still a girl — a girl who was looking for someone willing to understand her, just as I did. She was still as beautiful as an angel.

I always thought she was merely my virtual angel, the darling that made my days that much brighter, but we were each others’. I imagined myself as an immovable object, and I once thought she wasn’t. We stand somewhere in between, a combination of the two. The divinity of our love for one another moved me.

At seventeen, I was hopeful — driving through rolling mountains in northern California, miles from my room. My heart was humming under my chest, like a monitor whirring awake. My world had never felt so large.

It felt like a fairytale, a moment being written out in front of me, the excitement of a long awaited meeting — my hands itched to write about it.

It happened quickly — I threw my car door open and rushed towards the girl waiting on the front lawn, crushing her into the tightest embrace. I could feel her heartbeat moving just as fast as mine — our parents smiling fondly from their respective spots.

I pulled away for a moment and took her in. Her hair was longer, and the shirt she was wearing suited her; purple always had. The camera didn’t show the sharpness of her cheekbones, or how her face glowed when she was truly happy. I felt like I was looking at her for the first time. Between the half-laughs and half-sobs, she took a hard look at me and said between tears:

“You’re not as short as I thought you’d be.” ■