So Many Ways.
Write from the POV of a person in a relationship with someone they first met online.
You could walk into this café, dressed in stained sweatpants and socks with sandals, your t-shirt the sorry sibling of a thrift shop polo, your hands tucked conspicuously inside your pockets. You could walk in, see me at the table with the satin red bow in my hair and avert your eyes, walking towards me cautiously, slowly, regret seeping in the back of your mind. You could order your coffee black and I’d turn my nose up at the pretentiously simply order, secretly feeling self-conscious with my hot custom espresso, extra caramel. You could sit down in the chair across from mine, ignore my pleading smile and cast your gaze down at the lacquer tabletop, your back hunching over your chained fingers. You could talk with a lisp and spit at me between your teeth, the beginning of each word unwelcoming. You could not talk at all. You could scratch the back of your left ear when the conversation dulls, and unknowingly fix your crotch as you adjust in your seat. You could leave after ten minutes. You could not even say sorry, not even glance back at the girl you’d thought you’d known so well, the mistake of months of messages, emails, and texts watching you as you go back through the door.
You could do all these things and still the only thing I’d remember about you was the way you made me laugh with a few simple sentences, and the small ache I’d get when we had to type goodnight. You could be so wrong in so many ways, and the picture of you in my head would still be the pictures you sent me, your smile big and hair tousled as if you were looking at through camera and directly at me.
You could be so different, so wrong, and you’d still be the most amazing person I’d ever met.