At a party in New York City in 2011, I met a cute girl named Steph who was visiting from L.A. We played beer pong and flirted; I assumed I'd never see her again, but sent her a Facebook friend request just in case. Over the next year or so, we liked and commented on each other's posts about puppies and snacks. After one especially witty exchange, Steph private-messaged me. Within days, our lighthearted responses became paragraphs-long replies.

We told each other intimate details of our lives: my Southern Baptist upbringing, her dream of opening a restaurant. I insisted to my friends that I was just making a new pal. But after a few weeks of messaging every day, I realized I was lying to everyone, including myself. We scheduled a first date via Skype, and I fretted over lighting and camera angles—I wanted to look perfect when she (re-)saw my face. I worried she might lose interest entirely. But when Steph answered my call, she was smiling, holding a bouquet of flowers she'd drawn on a piece of paper. We talked for almost four hours. I moved to L.A. that fall, and we've been together ever since. We still like each other's posts, only now we share our stories in person.


Next Story