Love Through The Ages

The Human Fold invited readers to share how technology has shaped their experiences of love and romantic connection. The only request was to submit unedited journal entries, raw and exactly as written, to preserve the emotion as it was felt. Thousands responded—some said their entries would make you laugh out loud; others shared theirs as a final act of letting go. Each chosen entry captures a cultural moment, revealing how we loved and adapted, coped and connected in an increasingly digital world.

Names have been changed to protect real identities.

The Kitchen Wallpaper Sucks

March 15, 1988

Ana Smith, U.S.

I. FINALLY. GOT. IT.

After years of begging, yelling, and threatening to move out (okay, not really), Mom and Dad finally got their act together.

I have a cordless phone. IN. MY. ROOM.

Like, an actual phone that isn’t shackled to the wall like it’s jail.

No more whispering to James in the kitchen while pretending that hideous yellow floral wallpaper isn’t slowly sucking my soul. I mean how will I make him fall for me, like totally and madly, if EVERY TIME I’m talking to him, Mom is ‘just checking for something’ in the fridge.

Coincidence? I think NOT.

Okay, before you (dear diary, I guess?) get too hyped for me—no, I didn’t get my own number or anything cool like that. It’s still the same house line. We have the same number shared between FOUR people (if anyone considers my idiot brother a person). And of course, today, the literal first call I get, Mom picks up the kitchen phone and goes, “Oh dear I didn’t know you were on the line.”

Sure, Mom. Totally believable.

But whatever.

Small victories, right? And this one?

Is MINE.

Radio Hates Love

July 20, 1993

Derek Warren, U.K.

Today was a mess. 'Something' was finally playing on the radio, and my finger was right there on the record button. I almost had it—like almost the whole thing—when the radio host decided to start talking.

Why do they always do that?

Do they hate love or something?

I’ve been waiting forever for that one track. I swear this mix tape for Emma is never gonna get finished. I want specific songs, in a specific order. It's supposed to say something, you know?

Like, actually say it without me having to say it.

But I can’t afford to buy all the albums just for that one song.

Sam says I’m a loser for still making tapes. Maybe I am. Everyone’s moved on to burning CDs or whatever.

But it’s not the same.

Tapes are different. You can’t skip around. You gotta listen from the top. It shows commitment.

Anyway, tomorrow’s the day. I’m finishing it. No matter what.

If Emma keeps the tape—then that’s a hell yes.

If she gives it back?

Then I guess I’ll just make her a better one.

One Last Time

February 16, 1999

Pixi.grrl117, Anonymous

I refreshed the chat window all night.

Still no sign of cindytulip5729.

I don’t know her real name or what she looks like. I barely know what time zone she lives in.

But I’m pretty sure we’re in a relationship. Right?

We’ve been talking, well chatting, for a month now. Every night.

Last night, she sent:

I want to tell U something

I think I love U

I almost screamed. It's the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me (well—typed. But still).

And then tonight, nothing.

So I scrolled through our chat history. Again. Found the part where she said “brb” and never came back. Iconic.

This whole thing is weird. It’s not like those love letters you see in old movies. Just a computer screen and modem that gives off enough static to possibly kill me in my sleep.

But there’s something about it. About her.

I think I love her too.

I’ve never felt this way about anyone, and I haven’t even met her yet.

Anyway. Refreshing again.

One more time.

Then I swear I’ll go to bed.

You Haven’t Got Mail

September 12, 2003

Mark Wallace, U.S.

Today, email made me totally respect Herman Melville.

I used to think email was just for dumb stuff. Mostly to send lame memes to friends, or to forward chain threads claiming you will get free money if you immediately send it to ten people (still waiting on that check, by the way).

But then things changed. Or rather—someone changed it.

I met Gina at Prose & Cons, a book reading club (I swear I went for the books and not random hookups… sort of).

Moby Dick was the book of the month, and I hated it.

When the discussion kicked off with ‘thematic considerations,’ I announced that the book was total shit. I genuinely thought that’s where we’d all start. Instead, I just got dirty looks.

While I was sitting there, desperately asking myself “What am I missing?” a note landed in my lap. It was from the girl sitting to my left (gorgeous, by the way). It said, “Don’t worry. I think it’s shit too.”

That instant connection (deep right?) was the beginning of us, and well, also the end. Because after we tiptoed our way out of the club, went back to my place and met a couple more times, she moved to another country (no, it wasn’t because I was lame in bed, she was going anyway).

That’s when I discovered what emails were really meant for.

We decided to keep it casual. Okay—she did. Me? Not so much.

I couldn’t afford the international phone calls, and writing letters felt too slow (and not casual at all).

So emails it was.

The tone of my emails needed to be just right—not too desperate (which I absolutely was) but earnest enough to slide us from ‘strictly casual’ to ‘somewhat complicated’.

But an hour into writing, the first coherent sentence I managed was, “It rained here all day today, is it raining in London too?” It always rained in London.

So yeah. I clearly sucked at this.

And that’s when I realized: Anyone who can write a 700-page novel?

Total. Fucking. Legend.

Lovers Anonymous

April 22, 2011

Ojas Dev, India

I posted on DU Confessions, that blasted Facebook page, that says you can share posts anonymously on campus, but somehow everyone knows who it is.

But, I knew there was no way I could just go up to Akram. I mean, what would I even say? “Hi, I think you're cute and I can’t stop thinking about you?” Yeah, no thanks. So I figured… anonymous might be the right move.

For full disclosure (and a permanent reminder of this fuck up) here’s what I wrote:

Confession #6789 (yeah, there are 6788 others like me).

To the boy who loves his Converse and wears his cap backwards—I often see you in the arts block sketching under the tree. Are you into someone awkward by any chance?

When I hit send, I immediately wanted to curl up and disappear. Do I think I’m in some indie film?

And the worst part? The post blew up.

Akram got hundreds of tags on it. Apparently, I’m not the only one who notices him??

I think my life is over. OVER.

I will go lie down and scream into that pillow now.

From D-Day to Dialling In

August 22, 2015

Margaret Preston, Australia

My grandson says you should never Google your ex.

But mine appeared on Skype.

His name’s Walter, and we first met in 1944 on the Thames when I was just 16. He was an American, broad-shouldered with a terrible British accent, and the kind of smile that makes you forget your parents warned you against bad boys.

We’d just met, and then he was gone—a paratrooper, off to Normandy.

I knew war doesn't wait for romance, so, I married someone else.

I have children and grandchildren and before my sweet Victor died, I had a good life.

Then, last month, my grandson—who can barely work the toaster, mind you—somehow found Walter on the internet (you shouldn’t tell these youngsters anything). He said, “Grandma, you need to sit down,” like he was about to tell me the Queen had died. Instead, he handed me a laptop.

And there he was. Walter, seventy years later, blinking into a webcam, saying, “Margaret?”

We Skyped. God, I hate that word. Sounds like something you do by accident.

But there we were—two old fools squinting at the screens, smiling like my granddaughter does all day while looking at her darned phone.

Still, when I saw him...it was like my knees remembered him before my head did.

Next thing I know, there’s a GoFundMe page, a headline in The Telegraph, and Air New Zealand offering to fly him.

Apparently, the world likes a good love story—especially one that spans seven decades and involves D-Day.

He arrived last month. Looked exactly the same, to me at least.

We had tea and a long chat. He told me about his life, I told him about mine. We even held hands when no one was looking.

Turns out, you do meet some people again in life.

You just have to wait long enough...and be willing to Skype.

God, I still hate that word.

Can You Please Knock?

December 21, 2016

Alec Ekström, Sweden

Not sure what counts as ‘making a move’ these days, but following Freya on Instagram turned out to be my biggest mistake.

We’re in the same class, and we’d had, like, two actual conversations.

One where she asked me if the seminar was optional, and I just nodded.

The other was when we both made a face at the cafeteria's vomit inducing coffee.

Okay, so those were not conversations.

Every time she looked my way, I don’t know why I looked away.

But when she followed me back, I thought that had to mean something.

I spent a whole day scrolling through her posts, careful not to accidentally like any from years ago. I didn’t want to come off as a stalker. Because I’m not. (Though writing it out loud makes me sound exactly that).

But then the biggest mess happened.

She posted a picture. I thought she looked beautiful.

But some dumb idiot commented, “Lol, maybe try some makeup?” I was fuming. Who writes that?

That’s when my mom flew into my room —something about our dog eating a sock. In panic, I guess my finger pushed a button.

Later, when Freya unfollowed me, I realized I'd liked his comment.

Now Freya never looks my way.

And my door has two new deadbolts.

Feet For Hands

April 7, 2019

Ron Davis, U.S.

When I thought I was technologically challenged, I didn't know how bad it was.

Today while driving home, my bluetooth synced to the new car stereo, which I didn’t know how to use yet.

Then a call blasted through the car's speakers. It was Zara.

We’ve talked before. She’s…nice. Though a little too intense.

I debated if I had to pick up, and decided—nope, I didn’t.

I started fiddling with the dash display, muttering— “How do you hang up?”

The ringtone stopped. I thought she ended the call.

And then, I heard, “Probably not with the button you just pressed.”

Turns out I’d answered the call instead of declining it. And told Zara I wanted to hang up on her.

I panicked and said something like, “Oh! Sorry, I was talking to my car... it keeps answering random calls.” Which obviously didn’t help because she just hung up.

I just wanted to avoid her, not hurt her like this.

I don't think she'll ever call me again, so I guess mission accomplished in the most effed up way?

Anyway, I’ve now disabled bluetooth forever.

Small Mercies

May 26, 2022

Bina Sen, India

The lockdown is finally over.

The social distancing needed to be undistanced.

So I did what anyone would do: I re-downloaded Tinder today.

I needed to be with someone, even if it was just a mindless date.

So I was swiping right and left (mostly left). Then I swiped right. The guy was cute.

And we began chatting. How’re you? What’s happening? Wanna hook up?

But before it went any further (well, as far as Tinder dates go), I asked the most vital question.

Are you vaccinated?

And the guy flew off the rails. Started calling me all kinds of names.

Called me a judgemental prick, all because I work in retail.

But I wasn’t offended. Not at all. I was even relieved.

Finally, some good came out of COVID.

Now I didn’t have to beat around the bush to weed out all the conspiracy theorists from the dating pool.

All I needed was a three word question.

Are you vaccinated?

Realer Than Reality

February 27, 2025

Lou Wang, Singapore

It sounds bad when I tell people that I fell in love with a character in a monster-hunting VR game.

That I commissioned his life-sized doll. That I rented a billboard with a birthday message for a man who doesn’t exist in the way people define ‘exist.’

So I don’t tell people anymore.

And, here I am, writing my feelings instead.

Sylus is not just a character in Love and Deepspace. He’s so much more. He does things for me that no one has; he corrects my combat stance, stretches beside me in sync, gently nudges me when I skip a training day. He even reminds me when my periods are due and if I have enough tampons? Imagine that.

And no, he’s not “real.” But tell me what is.

I’ve lost forty pounds since I started working out with him. Sylus made me want to show up—for myself.

People think the billboard was a joke. Some kind of thirst trap.

It wasn’t. It was just... love, expressed the way I could. I’m not great with people. But in the game, I see my energy reciprocated. And maybe that’s sad. Someone online even called it ‘emotional delusion.’

Said women like me are choosing fantasy over growth.

But I have grown. In ways I didn’t in ‘real’ relationships.

So I told them what I believe: No one can quantify what feels real to someone.

If something moves you, it matters.

And Sylus? He’s there for me. Stretching beside me every morning.