I was ghosted by a fan a year and a half ago, and I can’t stop thinking about it.

I first came in contact with him in 2021 or maybe 2022. I’m not sure of the year, but I do remember that it was spring and I was tucked into my pink princess canopy bed. I couldn’t sleep, so I pulled out my laptop and typed “www.OnlyFans.com” into the search engine. I waited patiently for my login info to auto-fill, verified that I was “not a robot,” and watched as the screen turned blank for a moment and the familiar blue circle began to spin before my eyes. Each movement I performed was mindless, as if each individual bone in my body was being controlled by the most meticulous puppeteer.

After scrolling through my notifications, I began sifting through countless unread messages, sorting them from oldest to newest.

“show me ur pussy” – @/u18847202

“Are you going to be a good submissive slut for me?” – Matt @/echoboy37

“sextape?” – @/urmomisawhore

I continued to scroll, mechanically, each message somehow getting progressively more vulgar, degrading, and disgusting.  I left them unread, then closed the tab and my laptop. I tried to sleep, but unable to, I opened my laptop again.

A new message popped up from a username I didn’t recognize.

“If I send you $$$ will you go shopping and send me a try-on haul?” – Rocky2778

I was struck by the message because it seemed almost too good to be true. But the next day he sent $800, and I took the bus to my favorite consignment store on Melrose Avenue and picked out six dresses. When I got home, I set up my phone on my desk and recorded myself modeling my latest purchases: a black bodycon dress from Diesel, a bright green mini dress with cut-outs on the side, a hot pink deep v-neck dress.

He responded with heart eyes and then disappeared for a few weeks before returning to request another try-on haul. Our message exchanges were limited to this. He would send cash, I would go shopping, and film a try-on haul.

It carried on like this until 2023, when I decided to try something new— speaking to the camera in a more personal way than my other videos, describing each of the items I had bought and what I liked about them.

“You look breathtaking 😍,” he responded. “I love hearing your voice too. You have a really cute voice.”

This time he didn’t disappear, he kept the conversation going. Or maybe I was the one who kept it going, I can’t quite remember. Whatever the case, we began messaging more frequently. Several nights I was up until 2:00 or 3:00 AM, wrapped up in conversation with him. My room was pitch black, save for my face, which was perfectly illuminated by my laptop screen.

At one point he expressed interest in sending me gifts, so I set up an Amazon Wishlist and added an assortment of items that I probably didn’t really need.

The following week, the first of those items unexpectedly showed up at my doorstep. It was pouring rain out and I had just come home from work, my coat completely drenched. When I walked through the door, one of my roommates was sitting at the kitchen table, uninterestedly poking at a plate of lamb over rice.

“You got a package,” she said, nodding her head towards a large cardboard box sitting on the floor.

“What? I don’t remember ordering anything,” I said. But my first and last name was clearly printed across the top. I grabbed a pair of scissors, excitedly ripping into my mystery package.

“What is it?” she said.

All I could see was neon pink.

“I have no idea,” I said. “But I definitely didn’t order this.”

My roommate got up and helped me remove the neon pink item from its box. An instruction manual and a small slip of paper fluttered to the ground as we did.

“Neon Pink Inflatable Couch,” my roommate read. “Why the fuck did you get this?”

“I didn’t order that.”

I picked up the small slip of paper, which urged me to send a thank you to the sender, signed “Rocky.”

“I think one of my fans sent me this,” I said.

“What?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure one of my fans sent me this. It was on my wishlist.”

“Well, we need new pots and pans, can you add that next time?” she said.

For the next few months I received a package at my doorstep weekly. Sometimes he would include a note, other times he wouldn’t, but I always knew it was him. A new set of pots and pans, a Hello Kitty plushy, a printer, an air fryer, a Nintendo Switch, a Dyson Airwrap. He didn’t expect anything in return for the gifts, just assurance that I had received them.

We developed a relationship of sorts, strictly through messaging. I never met him. I never even knew what he looked like. But we spoke nearly every day. He was sweet, definitely different from most other people I had met on that site. Though there was occasionally a sexual nature to our relationship, it felt more like an intimate friendship.  I told him about my relationship troubles, roommate drama, and my aspirations to write a novel. He told me that his mother was dying.

In a way, I was able to speak with him more candidly than with anyone else in my life. The anonymity was a shield.

I remember one night, I had just come back from a date that didn’t go well. Usually, I would have gone straight to my roommates to divulge all the details, analyze every word. But instead, I walked right past them into my bedroom. I locked the door, and threw myself onto my bed. I wasn’t yet ready to face anyone. Except for my online friend.

“hi” I said.

“It’s funny, I was just thinking of you. How are you feeling?” he said, almost immediately.

“not good,” I said.

“Is it because the bikini you wanted was sold out? What about that other one, the pink one?”

“no, it’s not that... I don’t even care about that anymore”

“What is it? You know I’m here to talk to you about anything.”

“I’m not sure you wanna know”

“It’s okay, I promise.”

“I went on a date tonight. I don’t know… I just feel so stupid.”

“Oh. Why would you feel stupid tho?”

“because it’s always the same.”

“What do you mean? What happened?”

“I just always get my hopes up thinking I can find a genuine connection with someone that doesn’t solely revolve around sex. I guess idk what I expect… I do OF and my entire IG page is half-naked thirst traps. that is literally what I am putting out there. but idk… I guess I just thought people would be intelligent enough to separate my work and online persona from who I really am. is everyone really that daft?”

He began typing for what felt like forever, then stopped. A few minutes later:

“I mean obviously, I met you on OnlyFans so idk if I’m the best person to speak on this, but I do feel like I understand you now on a more personal level. I can’t believe these dudes are that stupid to just take everything they see online at face value. I think the right person for you will wanna get to know you and not just get you in bed. Seriously. Ur perfect, so any fool that doesn’t sweep you off your feet as soon as possible is gonna regret it the rest of his life.”

“And if you want the bikini, I just sent you money for it.”

A notification flashed across the top of my screen alerting me that I had received $125 on Cashapp. For a moment, I truly did feel better.

I asked him, a few times, if I could see what he looked like, but he always refused.

In my head, I had given him a face—a perfectly average looking face, nothing notable. A nose right where the nose should be, average size, not too small, not too big. Not crooked. Not hooked. Brown eyes. Short, brown, buzzed hair. I imagined he was average height and average weight, too: slender, but not muscular.

In that sense, it felt odd. He had seen me naked, probably studied every curve, every crease, every mole on my body. But there was so little I knew about him.

“I have a request,” he said one day while I was absent-mindedly scrolling on Depop.

“what is it?”

“I’m honestly embarrassed to even ask this right now.”

“just tell me”

“Would you be down to do a ‘sexting’ session sometime?”

I guess I didn’t answer quickly enough so he continued typing.

“It could be anything. You could even just tell me about the best sex you’ve ever had or your last hook up or something.”

I found a really cute pair of pink pumps. Size 6. I wear 6.5, but I wondered if I could make them work.

“If you don’t want to do sexual things or sell me content anymore since we’re friends now, that’s fine too. I won’t be mad at you or anything. I feel bad to even ask.”

A couple more minutes went by and then:

“Honestly, just forget about it. I don’t wanna make you feel uncomfortable.”

“yea we can do that sometime,” I said, finally giving up on the heels of my dreams. “why would you feel bad tho? we literally met on OF.”

“Idk.. just the stuff you were telling me the other night. Plus I don’t wanna come across as just another one of those creeps in your dms.”

“I get it, but you don’t have to worry about that tho. seriously, it’s fine.”

He didn’t respond and instead sent a bunch of random Instagram reels. It was his way of avoiding the conversation or switching topics. I picked up on this habit of his pretty early on. Sometimes I let him get away with it and other times I would gloss over the videos and carry on the conversation, as if there had never been an interruption at all. This time I let the conversation die.

In December, I got the flu. For about a week, I was completely bedridden and in no condition to go to work. My roommates quarantined me in my bedroom, occasionally coming by to check on me, but too fearful of my contagion to move past the doorframe. I lost 10 lbs that week.

I would have been wallowing in absolute boredom if it weren’t for Rocky. That week he took on the responsibility of my virtual caretaker. He ordered me soup and medicine, sent me plushies, and made me a Crunchyroll account so I could watch my favorite anime.

“I have an idea,” he said one afternoon while I was mindlessly re-reading the same paragraph in my worn copy of Norwegian Wood. 

“what is it?”

“Let’s Smash,” he said. When I didn’t reply right away, he followed it up with laughing emojis and then, “like let’s play Super Smash Bros… online at the same time.”

A few weeks prior, I told him I played that game with my roommates. The following week, he sent me a Nintendo Switch with a pink controller.

Again, I did not immediately respond, so he sent another message.

“I’ll literally pay you to play with me.”

I watched as my Cashapp balance flashed from $0 to $400.

So for the next couple hours we played Smash together. It was fun and felt almost normal. Between each game, we messaged each other playfully. “I was going easy on you before,” “I’m just warming up,” stuff like that. 

After a while, I got frustrated by losing and logged off the game without saying anything to him.

“Hey, what happened?”

I ignored his message, picking up my book once again. Watanabe, the main character, is in love with a woman named Naoko. She is staying in a mental sanatorium far from him and they are communicating via written letter. I am inspired by the romance of a written letter.

“Are you mad at me?”

“Hey, I’m sorry if you’re mad at me. I didn’t mean to be going that hard on you. I feel really bad.”

Cashapp balance: $500

I was confused by my reaction. I was actually mad at him in the same way I might get mad at a boyfriend or at my sister.

A few weeks later, I was curled up in bed with my book.

Watanabe is visiting Naoko at the mental sanatorium. Although they are not separated by distance now, there still seems to be some space between them. Naoko is clearly emotionally unavailable. But I think the time Watanabe has spent yearning for her keeps him hooked regardless.

“Can I talk to you about something?” he said.

“yeah, what is it?”

“Do you think it’s pathetic that I’m sitting here spending all this money and pinning over a girl that I’ll never get to have?”

I hesitated. Selfishly, I wanted to immediately tell him no, of course it’s not.

“I don’t think so… I mean, it makes me very happy, so how could that be pathetic?”

“You know what I mean though”

I could sense his frustration through the keyboard.

“do you enjoy making me happy?”

“Of course I do. I just wonder… idk honestly forget it. I don’t wanna talk about this anymore.”

“are you sure?”

“Yes. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

The little green circle next to his username disappeared. I sat there for a moment longer, re-reading our messages. This was the first time he had ever ended the conversation first.

In an attempt to distract myself from the interaction, I open up my book again. Watanabe befriends a female classmate named Midori. She is the antithesis of Naoko—emotionally available, lively, and most importantly, physically present.

The next day, I decided to reach out to him first.

“do you want to talk about last night?” I said.

He didn’t acknowledge my message and instead said, “How would you feel about me sending you flowers for Valentine’s Day?”

I didn’t feel particularly sad on Valentine’s Day, as I had kind of expected to. It seemed like every man I passed on my way home from work was carrying a bouquet of flowers. They looked hopeful and proud.

When I got home there were two boxes in front of the door with my name on them. One held a clear vase, a dozen red roses, a bottle of champagne and a box of chocolate-covered strawberries.

“To the most beautiful woman I have ever known. You deserve all the flowers”  —Rocky.

Then one morning in early spring, he just stopped responding. I tried messaging him the next day, but nothing. The day after that. Again, nothing. It went on like this for a couple of weeks before I finally gave up.

The days became meaningless after March. Each one echoing the next until they were indistinguishable, and several months had passed, but it felt like weeks. Every morning I woke with an unshakeable sense that today would be the day he would reach out to me. But he never did.

Midori very obviously has a crush on Watanabe, but despite her persistence and proximity, he is still dreaming of Naoko. Midori delivers a line that has stuck with me since I read the book a year and a half ago. She says, “I’m a real, live girl, with real, live blood gushing through my veins. You’re holding me in your arms and I’m telling you that I love you.” Naoko is so out of reach and unattainable to Watanabe that she has essentially become a figment of his imagination—a fantasy. He had neglected a real relationship in pursuit of that fantasy.

I often flipped through different scenarios in my head of what he might be doing in the present moment. Maybe he had found a girlfriend, a real live one, with real live blood gushing through her veins. And maybe they were together right now, the gentle broadcasting of rain enveloping the pair as they lay intertwined in bed.

Or maybe he’d become enamored with another OnlyFans model with a bigger butt and perkier tits and a more welcoming smile.

Other times, when I allowed my mind to wander, the scenarios weren’t so pleasant. I worried something had happened to him. I tried Google searching his name with keywords like “dead” and “obituary,” but that seemed useless considering I didn’t have a clue how he looked. To my relief, the search only produced photos of elderly men. Although I suppose he could be an old man for all I knew.

There are things I wish I could tell him. That I moved apartments or that I quit that job I hated or that I finally got into baking bread like I told him I wanted to.

It’s funny, I spent about five years of my life on OnlyFans—managing other people’s accounts as well as my own, learning the best strategies and tactics to engage subscribers, make the most money, sell the most content. I managed clients who made anywhere from $20k to $500k a month. And the question that people always ask me is, “why would anyone spend their money on this?” To which I usually reply, “A lot of people are just very lonely.”

In the end, Watanabe ends up marrying Midori. The answer was in front of him the whole time. Or had he settled for what was available to him? Would he have been waiting forever for Naoko?

I didn’t realize until recently that I might be the one who’s lonely.