It was the year 2006. I was sixteen, an ordinary boy who spent most of his free time at home, online, escaping into games whenever life felt too quiet. I never thought a single message would change me.
A message request appeared from someone I didn’t recognize. I almost ignored it, but something made me open it.
She also mentioned she had just returned after taking a break. I replied because I knew the game well. What I didn’t know was that this small interaction was the beginning of something that would stay with me for years.
We talked every day after that. She always greeted me with a soft “hello,” and I always replied “hi.” She asked if I was doing fine. I always told her I was fine. Five months passed like that—quiet conversations, shared jokes, the two of us playing together after school. She even introduced me to one of her real-life friends, Tom, and the three of us played often.
And then everything changed.
She stopped messaging me. Stopped saying hi. Stopped joining my games.
At first, I brushed it off—maybe she was busy. But a month passed, and the silence never lifted. I finally messaged her:
Two days later, after school, I checked my notifications.
I asked, “Are you okay?” She replied, “Yes, I’m doing fine. How about you?” I told her I was fine too. That was the last message she sent me.
Christmas came. And with it, another message—longer, heavier.
I didn’t notice my tears until my mom asked, “Why are you crying, Apollo?” I told her it was nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. It was everything.
I didn’t reply immediately. I was shocked, unprepared. I remembered her asking once, “If I tell you something important, will we still be friends?” And I told her, “Yes. I think of you like a little sister… or a friend.” Maybe those words cut deeper than I imagined.
On December 26, I finally found the courage to answer. I thanked her. Told her I appreciated her honesty. Told her I cared but only as a friend. Told her I hoped she understood. That we could still be friends. That I would always be there.
She never replied. Not that week. Not that year. Not ever.
Years passed. I turned twenty-one. I was helping my mom with bills after my father had passed away when I was only two. Life kept me busy, but part of me… kept waiting. Checking my laptop every day. Even though I knew she had probably moved on. Found new hobbies. Maybe a boyfriend. Maybe a better life.
Then something strange happened. One afternoon, at the mall, I was riding the escalator down when I saw a girl riding up. Our eyes met for less than a second, but something inside me froze. I felt like I knew her. I turned, searching, but she didn’t look back. I went home unsure if my mind was playing tricks on me.
But I still checked my laptop. Still waited. Nothing.
By the time I reached twenty-five, I gave up waiting. I was still single—not because I hated love, but because… finding someone who felt right never happened. No one gave me that same warmth. Maybe it was my fault for clinging to the past.
One day, I met another girl. Something about her felt familiar, so I said hello. She looked surprised.
“Oh—no, not really,” I said. She asked what I needed. I hesitated, then said, “I feel like I know you. Did you ever play a game called Horse Online?”
She blinked, then nodded. “Yeah, but I stopped a long time ago.” Before I could say more, her manager called her. She worked at Starbucks.
I gave her my email before she walked away, my heart hammering. I felt exposed and vulnerable, like I had given a piece of myself. Tom, who had recognized her from our game days, gave me a knowing look. “She’ll reply,” he said quietly, “I know her.”
That night, I received her email. She called herself Krystal.
Memories rushed back like a storm. The messages. The laughter. The silence. The confession. The goodbye. I barely slept that night.
The next morning, I rushed to Starbucks—but she wasn’t there. A coworker told me she was on her day off. Tom told me he knew where she lived. My heart stopped when he said the address: Street 59, Building 2, Fourth floor. I ran there. I rang the doorbell. No answer.
I walked to a nearby park to gather myself. And that’s when I saw her. She was walking with a man and a child—maybe five years old—holding her hand.
I waved back, but inside… something cracked. Hard. As they walked past, I realized fully: her life had already moved on. She had a family. A new world. A new heart. And I was just a memory.
I left the park slowly, feeling the weight of years pressing down on me. My thoughts were blurred, grief and longing tangling together. In my confusion, I stepped into the road without thinking.
A car hit me. Pain exploded, my vision blurred. Strangers called out, and someone lifted me onto the pavement. My mother’s voice rang in my ears as I was rushed to the hospital. Machines beeped around me, sterile smells filling my nose. My body was hurt, but the deeper ache—the one in my chest, the one that held her name—remained untouched.
Even lying in the hospital bed, bandaged and bruised, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. About what could have been. About all the years I had spent waiting.
All I could think was:
But questions like that only hurt more. Because the truth was simple: Life moved on. She moved on.
This… This was the end of my story.
The last beat of my heart for her.