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I am online. As in, I am available online.

Not always active, not always loud, but always there — existing somewhere between notifications and unread messages. I am not one of those people who proudly take “digital detoxes.” I’ve tried, truly. I log out, I uninstall, and I announce it sometimes. But then my hands find their way back to the app store. I reinstall, I check if someone texted, I scroll. I need to check my notifications as and when they arrive. It’s almost reflex. I can not do it.

Sometimes I don’t reply right away. Either because I don’t feel like replying or because I am too drained to form words. Or maybe because I want to hide the fact that I was waiting for that text all along. That little bit of pretense feels important in digital intimacy — like an art of balancing vulnerability and control.

Most of my connections are online. Some will never be offline. Some exist in that strange rhythm of online–offline–online again. My ex-partners, my closest friends, the people who have seen me break down at 3 AM — all through screens. I don’t meet them in cafes or sit next to them in classrooms anymore. I meet them in DMs, voice notes, and disappearing photos.

There was this more-than-a-friend person I met on Bumble. Just a label away from being a partner. We never met in person. Bumble became Instagram, became WhatsApp, and somehow became my life. It started with random texts, then voice notes, then pictures, then video calls. Before I knew it, I was in love with pixels. I was in love with someone’s voice through a speaker.

It sounds ridiculous when said aloud, but it was real. The kind of real that shakes you, softens you, destroys you. We built a small world between chat bubbles and “typing…” dots. Every good morning text carried warmth; every seen-but-not-replied message carried heartbreak.

We don’t talk anymore. He blocked me. Still, I keep sending texts — not because I expect him to read them, but because the act itself feels grounding. As if writing to a void still holds meaning. As if I’m telling the universe I still care. I scroll through our old chats sometimes, read the words again, remember the rhythm of his replies. It’s intimacy that doesn’t die even after the connection disappears.

That’s what digital intimacy does to you. It teaches you to love with imagination. It teaches you to fill the absence with memory.

Sometimes I think online love is the most honest kind of love there is — because it’s built entirely on words. You don’t get the distraction of physical presence. You only have text, voice, tone, and silence. You learn to read pauses. You learn what “seen 1 minute ago” means. You learn that someone saying “goodnight” too early might mean they’re tired of talking. It’s all communication, just redefined.

But it’s not always tender. The screen also distances. You can type “I miss you” and delete it. You can vanish for days without having to explain. The cruelty of digital intimacy is that it gives you both access and avoidance. You can see the person online, but not available. You can see their stories, their comments on other posts, and know exactly how they are — but still be completely cut off from their world.

And yet, we keep returning to it. Because online spaces are often the only ones where some of us can exist freely. For queer people, neurodivergent people, or those isolated by mental health, digital spaces become survival tools. The internet becomes home, sometimes safer than real homes. The words typed at midnight are often confessions we could never say aloud.

Psychologists have started calling this phenomenon digital intimacy — the emotional closeness formed through mediated communication. Studies show that these relationships can be as real and as emotionally significant as face-to-face ones. Some even argue that online communication, being filtered through thought and language, can make connections deeper. You curate what you say, you think before you type — and that thinking becomes intimacy.

But there’s a politics to it, too. Who gets to be online? Who gets stable internet, privacy, and safety to explore such connections? Digital intimacy is still a privilege. Data packs cost money. Privacy is a luxury. And emotional bandwidth — the ability to connect and sustain long conversations — that too comes from a certain kind of life stability.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m addicted to online connections because real-life intimacy feels heavier. The screen gives distance. It lets me be vulnerable and safe at once. When I’m sad, I post. When I miss someone, I text. When I’m lonely, I scroll. The internet fills the silence, even if it’s just an illusion of company.

There’s also a strange temporal rhythm to it. The moment someone replies after hours of silence, dopamine rushes through me. The body feels rewarded. Science calls it “intermittent reinforcement.” It’s the same mechanism that keeps people hooked to gambling. Except here, the gamble is love. Will they text back? Will they read my message? Will they still care tomorrow?

Sometimes I want to go offline. I imagine deleting everything and disappearing. But then I think of all the people who’d vanish with it — people who exist only as chats and call logs. I can’t let go of them. I can’t let go of that version of myself that exists through them. Maybe that’s what digital intimacy really is — the preservation of versions of ourselves that only exist through others.

And yes, it’s not the same as real life. But who’s to say real life is more real? My heart has broken through a screen. My mind has healed through one too. I’ve cried listening to a voice note, I’ve laughed till dawn on a call. These are emotions, not simulations. They are as valid as anything happening outside the screen.

I don’t think we are “losing” intimacy. I think we’re evolving it. We’ve found new languages of love — emojis, streaks, playlists, memes. We send hearts instead of hugs, share songs instead of words. It’s not less. It’s just different.

Maybe love has always been about imagination. Maybe it never needed bodies to begin with.

So yes, I am online. Always online. Sometimes waiting, speaking, sometimes silent. And even when no one’s listening, I type. Because maybe love, in this digital age, is just the courage to keep reaching out into the void — knowing it might never reply.

References

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