Maria’s coffee maker broke on a Tuesday.
She posted a photo. The machine dead on the counter. I felt bad for her.
Didn’t comment. Don’t know Maria.
Don’t know her last name. Where she lives beyond “Midwest somewhere.” What she does for work. Never heard her voice.
But I know her coffee maker broke. Know she’s allergic to shellfish. Know her mother calls Sundays. Know she’s afraid of dying alone.
Know her better than my neighbor. Five years, still forget his name sometimes.
Started with insomnia. Scrolling at 2 AM, reading an article about how social media affects relationships. Ironic. The algorithm showed me Maria’s post about anxiety right after. Followed her. Her life became routine. Like a show I couldn’t stop watching.
Except not a show.
After Maria came David. Addiction recovery. Then Sarah. Divorce. Then James. Novel, two jobs. Strangers becoming familiar. Checked them daily. Worried about their problems.
My wife noticed.
“Who are you reading about?”
“Just someone’s post.”
“Someone you know?”
“Not exactly.”
She looked over my shoulder. “You’ve been here twenty minutes.”
“She’s going through something.”
“Do you know her?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
No good answer.
My father wouldn’t understand this. His world—neighbors, colleagues, community. Small circle. Real. Proximity required.
Now I’m intimate with people I’ll never meet.
Know things about Maria she hasn’t told family. David’s 3 AM fears. The exact moment Sarah decided to leave her husband. She documented it. Raw. For thousands to read.
Last month David relapsed.
Posted about it. Short message. Devastating. Hundreds commented. Support. Stories. Encouragement.
I wrote something. Deleted it. Wrote again. Deleted.
What could I say? Don’t know David. No right to his suffering. My support parasitic.
Closed the app. Felt sick.
That evening my wife asked about my day. Said fine. Ate dinner. Watched TV. Bed.
Twelve years married. Same house. Same bed.
Couldn’t tell her I’d spent the day worried about a stranger’s relapse. That David’s pain felt more real than anything in my actual life.
“You know what’s strange?” my colleague said at lunch. “I know more about my favorite accounts than about you. Read something about how social media affects relationships. Made me think.”
Three years working together. Lunch weekly. Surface talk. Work complaints. Weekend plans.
Meanwhile I knew Maria was thinking about moving cities. David considering a dog. Sarah in therapy, finally sleeping.
Strangers offering interior lives. My colleague and I offering pleasant small talk.
“Why?” I asked.
“Easier maybe. Online people can be honest. In person we have to be appropriate.”
Right. Maria posts about dying alone. Hundreds validate it. I say that at lunch? Too heavy. Too personal.
Social media created spaces for honesty real life couldn’t handle.
My son found me scrolling.
“Who’s that?”
“Someone I follow.”
“You know her?”
“No.”
“Then why are you reading about her life?”
Eight years old. Already seeing the absurdity.
“I don’t know.”
He looked at me. That child clarity. “That’s weird, Dad.”
It was.
I started counting. Time with digital strangers versus actual people.
Embarrassing.
Knew Maria’s coffee preferences. Couldn’t remember last real conversation with my brother. Followed David’s recovery daily. Hadn’t called my friend who mentioned struggling. Cared about Sarah’s custody battle. Ignored my wife’s hints about loneliness.
Strangers were easier. Demanded nothing. Could care without helping. Feel connected without work.
Intimacy without reciprocity.
Safe.
Maria’s coffee maker got replaced. Cheerful post. New machine. First cup brewing.
I felt relieved. Happy for her.
Also hollow.
My relief didn’t matter. Maria didn’t know I existed. My concern, my care—none of it touched her life.
One-sided relationship. She wasn’t aware I was there.
That night I called my brother.
“Everything okay?” Surprised.
“Yeah. Just wanted to see how you are.”
Talked an hour. Really talked. Work. Marriage. Worries about aging. Things I didn’t know. His voice unfamiliar after so long.
Checking strangers daily. My brother becoming one.
Still follow Maria. David. Sarah. James. Dozens more. Still care.
But trying to understand what that caring means.
Knowing strangers through posts isn’t friendship. It’s witnessing. Being moved by stories. Has value—reminds us we’re not alone.
But not relationship. Consumption.
Last week had dinner with friends. Real friends. Year since we’d seen them.
Actually talked. Real things. Fears. Hopes. Struggles. Went places posts never could. Deeper. Messier. We contradicted ourselves. Changed minds mid-thought.
Uncomfortable sometimes. Required energy. Vulnerability that couldn’t be edited.
Real.
Got home. Realized I hadn’t checked my phone during dinner.
Maria posted yesterday about starting therapy. Said social media felt less like connection, more like performance. Mentioned reading studies about how social media affects relationships. Trying to figure out what was real.
Hundreds commented. Agreeing. Sharing confusion.
I didn’t comment.
Tonight putting phone away early. Going to ask my wife about her day. Actually listen. Call my brother. Maybe my friend. Maybe that colleague.
Knowing strangers’ coffee preferences is interesting.
Knowing the people in your actual life—
That requires presence. The messiness of mutual vulnerability.
Requires being known, not just knowing.
Maybe that’s what I’ve been avoiding.
