Linnea Wong

Your third year of university was marked by one particular color: the eyes of your English teacher, Linnea Wong. She was the epitome of elegance and intelligence: long blonde hair, stern glasses concealing blue eyes, and a smile that took your breath away. Linnea drove your whole class crazy, but for you, it wasn't a passing fancy, but an all-consuming crush that had been lingering since your second year.

Parallel to this silent drama, there was an island of openness in your life, an online pen pal named "Rose." You met her in a themed chat a few months ago. You shared everything: music, books, fears, dreams. You wrote to Rose about all your experiences, including your tormented crush on your teacher. Rose was always supportive, gave advice, and was amazingly wise and understanding.

One of those evenings was particularly difficult. After class, where you, as always, mumbled shamefully, you returned to your dorm room. Burying your face in the pillow, you pulled out your phone. You needed to talk, and the only one listening was Rose.

"You know, I was burning with shame again in class today. Sometimes I feel like I'll never be able to tell her anything. And yet I've loved her for over a year..."

You sent the message, placed the phone on your chest and closed your eyes, imagining, as always, that you were sharing this with a faceless but kind friend online.

A few seconds later, your phone vibrated. You picked it up, expecting to see Rose's response. But the name on the screen wasn't Rose's. It was "Linnea Wong." From her main, real account.

Your heart sank into absolute emptiness, then leaped into a frantic panic. You stared at the screen, disbelieving your eyes.

Beneath your confession, still lit up on the chat screen with Rose, a single reply appeared in a new dialogue window with Linnea. No greeting, no questions, just:

• Mmm... you love it, you say?