Unfading Love of Unseen

Chapter 2: Strangers

To distract myself, I reached for my phone. Anything to escape the heaviness anchored in my chest. My feed, ever the temptress, was flooded with food—steaming bowls, seafood, dumplings and garnishes that looked hand-placed by angels. Perhaps it was just a chef, yet the food looked good and the flavors I could almost taste just by staring at the screen.

Right on cue, my stomach growled—a low, tragic rumble. A gurgling plea for comfort.

“Fine,” I muttered. “I’ll grab something to eat.”

I rose slowly, headed myself to the kitchen area and opened the fridge. The familiar scent of leftover chicken sinigang and a bowl of rice greeted me like a soft pat on the shoulder. I placed them gently in the oven and stood in the quiet hum of the kitchen, listening to the gentle hiss of warming broth. It filled the silence, but not the ache.

I leaned against the counter, arms folded. What to do now? Should I try to talk to a stranger? Why? again? At all times?

Maybe I just wanted... presence. Not love. Not flings. Just someone to speak to. To remind myself that I still existed in someone else’s awareness, even just for a moment.

So I gave in.

I walked back to the chair, phone in hand, and pulled up a search bar. My fingers hovered for a second before typing: “talking to a stranger.”

The first result was simple and surprisingly warm—Winky: Random Chat with Strangers. Clean design. Two glowing buttons: Text Only and Video Chat.

I didn’t want to be seen. I didn’t want my voice to tremble. I wanted silence, stillness, and the safety of words.

I clicked Text Only. The screen blinked to life—empty except for a single cursor pulsing at the top like a heartbeat.

Then—

Stranger: hi

I didn’t overthink it.

Me: Hello, how are you doing?

A moment passed.

Stranger: I am fine, what about you?

So simple. Grounding. Like tossing a pebble into a still pond and hearing a soft echo back—I’m here too.

I stared at the blinking cursor. Hesitated, then typed:

Me: Not great. But I’m managing.

There was no need to dress it up with metaphors or pleasantries. Just the truth—quiet, small, honest.

Stranger: Been a rough day?

A question. A real one. How could someone with no name ask just the right thing? I swallowed.

Me: It’s not just today. It’s a weight I’ve carried for ten years.

He didn’t answer right away. And strangely, I didn’t mind. Some silences don’t beg to be filled—they simply ask to be heard.

I shifted back to reality and added, a little lighter:

Me: But technically, it’s my day off today. Took the day off 😆

Stranger: Ohh.

That tiny “Ohh” felt like an acknowledgment. A nod across the void. Like he understood without needing to understand. And somehow, that small, anonymous response made the ache inside my chest feel slightly, less.

Then I asked, casually:

Me: Where are you from, by the way?

The reply came quickly.

Stranger: I came from India.

And just like that, something in me dropped. My breath hitched. The word India sat on the screen like a bruise, deepening with every second. My chest tightened, and I suddenly wished I hadn’t asked. I hadn’t prepared myself for that possibility. I came to this site for distraction—not to rip open wounds I’d spent a decade trying to cover. I swallowed the lump rising in my throat and forced my fingers to move.

Me: I’m from the Philippines.

No emoji. No follow-up question. I couldn’t ask for anything more—not now. He was a stranger, but the name of his country wasn’t. It echoed with memory. With Aahnik. I promised myself I wouldn’t ask for details. Not his name. Not his city. Not anything that might remind me of the boy I once loved, and left behind at that airport. And yet, somehow, I stayed. Typing. Talking. Sharing tiny pieces of myself, hoping the ache would break apart gently, like steam off a bowl of sinigang.