Eliza stared at her phone for the hundredth time that evening. She opened the app again to check if he'd responded.

Nothing.

Three days since their last exchange, and the silence was becoming unbearable. They'd never gone more than a few hours without messaging since connecting six months ago. Their daily ritual of morning texts and nightly voice messages were as reliable as sunrise. 

This sudden silence felt like a rupture in her reality. She scrolled through their message history, lingering on the explicit photos they'd shared, her body displayed for his eyes only, his images burnt into her memory.

They'd never met in person. Six months of intense conversation, voice messages, and increasingly intimate photo exchanges had created a connection that felt paradoxically both tenuous and profound. Their late-night video calls had grown increasingly explicit, him guiding her touches through the screen, her watching as he pleasured himself to the sight of her. She knew the expressions that crossed his face in moments of pleasure, the deep timbre of his voice when aroused, even the rhythm he preferred.

She didn't even know his real name, just "NightWanderer," but somehow, he understood her desires better than anyone she'd ever physically touched.

What had begun as casual flirtation on the platform had evolved into something neither of them had expected. He was the first person she messaged each morning and the last voice she heard at night. They'd shared secrets in the darkness, her failed marriage, his creative frustrations, and the childhood wounds they both carried. During a particularly vulnerable moment, she confessed fears she'd never voiced to anyone else, and instead of withdrawing, he'd opened himself to her in return. The sexual connection was intoxicating, but it was these moments of raw honesty that had created a bond that transcended the digital space between them.

She wondered if he was chatting with other women now, or if he'd simply grown bored with their online affair. The thought stung, but it didn't diminish the ache he'd awakened in her. If anything, the possibility that she might never hear from him again only intensified her need.

Her last three messages remained unanswered, the final one a vulnerable confession about how much she missed him. She wouldn't send a fourth. They'd established that pattern early on: never appear desperate, never push too hard. "The moment someone begs for attention is the moment desire dies," he'd told her once, and she'd agreed, valuing her dignity as much as the connection. Now that unspoken rule felt like a prison, keeping her from reaching for what she wanted most.

With a frustrated sigh, she tossed her phone aside and turned off the bedside lamp. The darkness enveloped her bedroom, the sheets cool against her skin as she slipped under them. Outside, the city hummed distantly, but in her apartment, the silence only amplified her solitude. Her fingers hovered over her phone one last time, tempted to send yet another message before she finally set it on her nightstand, screen down.

In the dead of night, Eliza lies alone, her mind a whirlwind of lust and despair. His absence is a crushing weight on her skin, an ache that pulses with every breath she takes.

"Fuck, I wish he was here, fucking me," she thought. The words slice through her like a blade as her fingers plunge deep inside herself. The image sears her mind relentlessly, his presence a phantom tormenting her reality.

She spread her legs wide, her back arching off the bed. Her breath hitches as her fingers trace her wetness, circling her clit and sending jolts of pleasure through her body. She imagines his touch, his fingers replacing hers, his body pressing against her, his heat enveloping her completely.

Her fingers dip inside, slowly at first, then faster, deeper, matching the rhythm of her fantasies. She feels the slickness, the warmth, the building tension as her hips bucked against her hand, desperate for more of what only he can truly give her.

In her mind's eye, she sees his body, hard and demanding. She envisions his cock driving into her, stretching her, filling her completely, obliterating the emptiness that devours her from within. She craves to come with him buried deep inside her, to feel his release, to be consumed by more than just her own desperate touch.

Her other hand grips her breast, fingers pinching at her nipple. A sharp gasp escaped her lips as the sensations flooded through her. She imagines his mouth there instead, his teeth grazing her sensitive skin, his hands roaming her body, claiming every inch as his own.

Her movements become urgent now, her breath ragged and heavy in the silent room. Her fingers thrust deeper, harder, chasing the climax that hovers just out of reach. She can almost feel him there with her, his cock pulsing inside her, his body tensing as he comes undone above her.

The fantasy intensifies. In her mind, he's fucking her hard, his rock-hard cock thrusting into her relentlessly. The sensation of him filling her, stretching her, is overwhelming. She imagines the moment he comes, his cock pulsing rhythmically, his cum spraying deep inside her, coating her walls. She can almost feel the warmth spreading through her as he claims her completely.

Her fingers glisten with her wetness, the sound of her slick flesh filling the otherwise empty room. Her hips grind against her hand, her body writhing with each thrust as she pushes herself closer to the edge.

And then it happens; she comes hard, the orgasm ripping through her like a storm. Her pussy clenches, twitches, and pulsed around her fingers. Her body convulses violently, her back arching high off the bed as her cry becomes a primal scream that fills the empty room. Her eyes roll back, her vision blurs, the intensity of her climax pushing her to the edge of consciousness itself. Her thighs clamp around her hand, her panties now soaked through. Her release squirts out of her, coating her fingers, her thighs, and the sheets beneath her. The sensation is overwhelming, unlike anything she's ever felt before, yet still not enough.

In her mind, he's still there with her, his cock buried deep, his cum filling her, dripping out of her. The sensation of him remains vivid and intense in her imagination, but the physical reality is missing.

Yet even in the throes of this monumental pleasure, the void remains, an echo of what could have been, of what she craves to be. She keeps fucking herself, her fingers slick and relentless. The image of him is still vivid, still tormenting her, driving her wild with need.

In the silence that follows, she moans his name softly. It's a plea to the emptiness, a prayer to the shadows, hoping that someday, somehow, he'll be there in the flesh, fucking her, filling the void she aches for so desperately.

Until then, her fingers work tirelessly, a desperate fix in his absence, but also a testament to the relentless power of her desire. Her body aches for the day when fantasy finally becomes a reality when she no longer needs to imagine his touch but can feel it with every fibre of her being.

As her breathing slowly returned to normal, Eliza reached for her phone one last time. The screen illuminated her face in the darkness, casting harsh shadows across her features. She hesitated, thumb hovering over the app icon before swiping to her photo gallery instead.

She scrolled through images she'd never shared with him, pictures of her real life. Her apartment. The view from her office window. The coffee shop where she wrote on weekends. For six months, she'd shared her body but kept these mundane details private, maintaining the boundary between fantasy and reality.

Tomorrow would mark day four of silence. Perhaps it was time to cross a different threshold, not with another pleading message, but with a decision.

She opened her browser and searched for flights to Boston, the city he'd once mentioned calling home. She didn't have his address or even his real name, but she had enough details to begin looking. If this connection was real, perhaps it was time to discover just how real it could become.

Eliza set an alert for ticket prices and then placed the phone back on her nightstand. She wouldn't act rashly; that wasn't her nature. But she'd planted the seed of possibility in her mind, and that alone felt like reclaiming some power.

As she drifted toward sleep, her phone suddenly vibrated against the wooden surface. A notification from the app illuminated the screen.

NightWanderer is typing…