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Originally written in Italian, translated by OpenAI.
It was on the Intercity 722 that S. finished writing the last lettermail on Slowly before meeting her.
Just before telling her, breath against breath, that he loved her.
——
It was October 31, 2020, and for the second time in a year, Italy found itself powerless in the face of a coronavirus ready to spread. On the horizon was a period of lockdowns set to last for months, while A. and S. were on the seafront of two different cities: she in Naples, he in Catania. Separated by a strait, stretches of land, and closed borders, they were about to embark on what seemed at first like just another simple correspondence.
She found him. Among a string of profiles and using only one filter on Slowly: that the person to write to be from the same nationality. Considering the potential results, the app must have worked its magic to decide which profiles, algorithmically speaking, to present to A. before notifying her that „The maximum number of results has been reached.“ You know how it works, right?
Yet, among that limited number of users, A. came across an avatar and a bio to which she decided to send her so-called „bot letter.“ It wasn’t a letter crafted specifically for that recipient; she had used it before. It was written to describe herself and what she was looking for: „…I needed to believe again that there was something beyond the darkness surrounding me. So here I am, now, searching for my Milena or my Myriam with the same burning passion as someone who hasn’t given up.“
S. hated prewritten letters and discarded them without ever replying. Yet that „bot letter“ was different, and he wondered – Does this girl think she’s Franz or Yair? Who could I possibly be for her? But how bold for a first letter!
S. decided to break his rule and replied. It took only a few letters, perhaps the first two, to realize that he couldn’t do without corresponding with A. anymore.
Thus began a long series of exchanges of words, gestures, and sometimes shared feelings, passed along imaginary avenues made of email addresses, collaborative playlists on Spotify, films and series to watch alongside a chat. They also started talking on Telegram, in calls, and video calls. They chose a book to read, games to try. They started exchanging their first gifts, the first flowers, the first surprises, and the first promises. They waited for the dawn, 400 kilometers apart, and waited again and again, meeting almost every night at midnight before going to sleep, whether for ten minutes or for all the remaining hours before morning. Christmas came, and they raised their glasses and toasted in unison, close to their screens, as they watched the first physical letters and gifts to keep.
Meanwhile, interregional travel was still banned. Nevertheless, S. and A. mutually agreed to defy the restrictions and the checks (which did happen!) to finally meet and touch each other. It was February 17 when they spent their first weekend together in Sorrento, after almost four months of waiting. The fear that this first physical encounter could upset the balance of their relationship weighed on both of them: what if, in person, they weren’t comfortable? What if their different personalities didn’t mix well, if she found him unbearable, or vice versa? What if they simply didn’t like each other? What if their correspondence vanished into thin air? Their hands trembled at the thought, at the idea that these questions could lead to the dramatic failure of their best intentions, but no fear could stop them. They met at the central station in Naples, as S. got off the Intercity 722 and A. waited, thinking she should probably run away.
A. didn’t run away, and their eyes finally met for the first time. It was different from what they had expected, and better: more intense, more magical, more beautiful. More real. They were finally under the same sky, and their hands could finally intertwine for real.
The separation afterward was terrible. It would always be. Yet they endured the distance that reestablished itself, endured another month and a half of strict restrictions. They saw each other again at the beginning of April in Catania, ignoring red and orange zones and challenging the rules again. Then, they reunited in Naples, where they shared the same roof for over a month, and later spent another weekend together in Catania in mid-June. Their lettermails became increasingly tiny compared to the splendid reality they were now living: between friends to meet, places to visit, food to taste, and drinks to down, they were building a life that surpassed any expectation contained in A.’s bot letter, in the verses S. had written to her, in the sentences they had dedicated to each other before even meeting. Together, they felt at home: not because everything was perfect; in fact, they would often „stick to their guns“ in fiery disagreements between their strong personalities, always ready to clash. Like a flammable liquid, their correspondence, now much more than epistolary, was a fire capable of burning above everything, for better or worse. Yet they were home, and even without needing to define themselves as a formal couple, they were happy together in that correspondence found through Slowly. By pure chance, perhaps, or maybe not.
The fact is, seven months and three thousand lettermails later, S. is in love with A., and A. with S.
Between them flows an immense river of words, inexplicable feelings, and future plans to design, inside and outside of their letters. Always together, along a path that blossoms from the green of her eyes and shines in the blue of his. On that highway is a sign showing the way home. Their home.
——
It was at 2:13 in the night of February 17 when A. finished writing the last lettermail on Slowly before meeting him.
Just before telling him, in person, that she loved him.
P.S. We thought we’d add the most recent photo of us together. S. is wearing A.’s sunglasses, while A. captures the moment (as well as S.’s heart, as usual).
