Never Meet

The Confession Game

By the time she realized it, the private messages were no longer a novelty-they were a necessity.

It started small. One-line exchanges in the

quiet of her London flat:

What's the color of your heart tonight?

Grey, as always.

Simple words. But he responded with

depth, curiosity, as if her soul were visible

through the screen. And she poured

herself into it, revealing fears she hadn't

spoken aloud in years, dreams she had

locked in notebooks she never touched.

He shared nothing personal-only

fragments, cryptic glimpses of life in

Rome: a half-empty street at dawn, the

smell of rain on cobblestones, a cat curled

near his apartment window. But she

imagined everything else. It became a game, though she never realized it at first. A confession game.

Each of them revealing just enough to pul

the other closer, withholding enough to

stay mysterious.

Drea fell deeper than she intended. Each

message was a thread, and she was the

spider caught in its delicate weave. She

tried to remind herself he was a stranger.

She tried to pull back, to breathe, to eat, to

sleep. But the pull was magnetic, and she

was powerless.Still her heart was afraid of what could be.....