I couldn’t speak. My mind was racing through the last three hours of conversation. We had talked about our favorite childhood memories—I had mentioned the old oak tree in my backyard, and he had laughed, saying he used to climb one just like it. I thought it was “fate.” In reality, it was a shared history.
We didn’t go to dinner. Instead, we sat on a park bench, keeping a very deliberate three-foot gap between us. The romantic tension that had built up behind the screen had vanished, replaced by a thick, awkward layer of familial obligation.
“I didn’t know you were back in town,” I finally managed to say.
“I moved back six months ago,” Marcus replied, staring at his shoes. “I used a fake name on the dating app because I wanted a fresh start. I didn’t want anyone to judge me based on the family drama.”
We spent the next hour doing what we should have done years ago: catching up as relatives. He told me why he really left the family, and I told him how things had been since he vanished. The connection we felt behind the screen wasn’t a lie—it was a deep, intellectual compatibility—but the context had shifted entirely.