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Days pass. Then a week, and we ease into a semi-rhythm. Steady, but not constant.

It goes like this: she logs on late, always after midnight, always after her house is quiet, and the rest of the world believes she’s asleep.

And I’m always here, waiting.

Every night, she opens up just a little more.

Like this:

MoonDance77: Do you ever feel like the person you show to the world isn’t even close to the one inside you?

She doesn’t give me anything specific. No real names. No city mentioned. No family details, other than that thing about her hubby cheating. Mostly just thoughts and impressions.

MoonDance77: I walked past someone today and heard their heartbeat. Isn’t that crazy? I wasn’t even close to them.

I don’t outright lie to her. But I don’t give my real name, either. I don’t talk about the blood fetish or the dreams or the man I was before I ran from the law. But I tell the truth inside the silence. And somehow, she seems to hear it.

Sometimes, I think she types things just to see if I’ll flinch.

For instance:

MoonDance77: Do you think it’s possible to lose your soul and still be a good person?

My answers are never simple. But always honest.

Fang950: You don’t lose your soul all at once. It slips away in pieces when you stop telling yourself the truth.

That one made her go quiet for a full day.

When she returned, she didn’t mention it. She never does. She just shifts to other subjects, other observations.

And the deeper we go...

***

At Heroes, I see her maybe once a week now, sitting alone or with her sister. Always drinking the same glass of white. Her eyes flick across the bar but never stop on me.

She still doesn’t know.

Can’t know.

A part of me wonders if some instinct has already told her the truth.

There was a moment when she hesitated at the exit before leaving. She looked back at the bar... right at me, or past me, and I swear I saw a flicker of something.

Recognition?

No.

Curiosity?

Maybe.

She doesn’t know she knows me.

But she feels something.

Back on AIM, our chats stretch longer. A few lines turn into hours. Thoughts become confessions. Neither of us says it, but we both understand:

This isn’t harmless anymore.

MoonDance77: Over the years, I’ve become something else, and I’m afraid… but not of the change. I’m afraid I’m beginning to like it.

Fang950: Maybe what you’re becoming isn’t so bad.

MoonDance77: Oh, it’s bad. I feel almost as if something is living inside me, like a demon. And she wants out.

Fang950: Or maybe you just want freedom?

MoonDance77: What if the price of freedom means losing everything that I am and love?

Fang950: Then decide which parts of you are worth keeping, and the rest was probably never real anyway.

***

It ends one night with nothing more than:

MoonDance77: Thank you.

Fang950: For what?

MoonDance77: For really seeing me.

She signs off without waiting for my reply.

I sit in the glow of the screen, fingers resting on the keys, breathing shallow.

I don’t know where this is going. But I know it’s going somewhere .

And I know I’m probably not ready, but I’ll follow her anywhere.