I knew Jiaming was the one when she sent me a picture of a dead bird. I asked what else she'd found, and she sent more photos: a constellation of bird footprints preserved in cement, a decomposed car buried in dirt, a pile of leaves crystalized in frost. I was drawn to the way she saw something worth remembering about these dead things.
Unlike the stilted exchanges I had with people at home, school, or work, it was startlingly easy to connect with Jiaming. Even though we were on a dating app and had never actually met, with every reciprocated message, a familiar feeling took root in my chest: I felt seen and understood, like I was encountering parts of myself in her own story. My therapist had recommended I try because my social anxiety meant I rarely left my room.
It had gotten so bad that I often couldn't speak without my heart pounding, hands shaking, body growing hot. I took months to respond to texts from friends, if at all. At first, talking to people on a was no different.
Replying to a message felt like base jumping off a cliff. Initiating contact felt like base jumping off a cliff without a parachute. But with Jiaming, it was different.
So miraculously different, I wondered if she was a . After all, her profile had the telltale signs of a scam: no prompt responses, several thousand miles away, conventionally attractive. But despite my reservations, I was curious.
So I let my curiosity drag me off the ledge. that I felt more at ease texting on a dating app than speaki.