« Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ », known to some as Butterfly, was getting old. She was past thirty now and wondered where her life was heading. ">tfw no gf," she thought to herself, as her fingers unconsciously typed "4chan.org/lit" into the address bar with a well-practiced ease. It wasn't just the lack of a qt Laurie Penny gf, though. She wanted more. She knew her fertile period was beginning to wane and she had started craving a child. On /lit/, she opened every thread she could and commented in all of them, with surprisingly apt pictures attached, and flirted with desperate men who thought they had a chance with a 5/10 lesbian.
Then she saw it. A Sunhawk thread. She was so lonely, and had desired Sunhawk's attentions for almost ten years now. There was no one left for her after Feminister died, gangraped by a bunch of MRA activists when her boyfriend had lifted up her shirt and exposed her bare breasts to them. Sunhawk never responded, but every time Butterfly commented in one of his threads she allowed herself a tiny bit of hope. He was the only familiar face among the anonymous horde. She knew that he, too, was alone: he still posted threads about attractive girls that he couldn't summon the courage to talk to.
This time he answered. She couldn't believe it. Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, she replied and had a surprisingly only half-fumbling conversation with him, and most of her spaghetti reserves had remained securely in her pockets. She left her email for him on a post, unwilling to let this feeling of elation go. Of course, the drones of /lit/ conspired to flood her inbox with filth pretending to be him, but she could tell which one was him. The total un-self-awareness of his own vapidity, the way he could supposedly read so many books and still be a utter pleb, revealed the real Sunhawk to her.
She got off the internet and started masturbating instead. She imagined Sunhawk as a cute, shy girl who she was initiating into the beauties of sapphic love. Her pace quickened, her fingers plunging into her cunt in the same pattern they had typed on the keyboard, as if to say "HA HA, TIME FOR 4CHAN!", and she came hard.
In the few moments of clarified thinking after her orgasm, she realized what she had to do. Over the next few days she exchanged emails with Sunhawk, trying to slowly bring the conversation around to the possibility of a meeting. He was recalcitrant, but she eventually brought him around. He was, after all, just as old and tired as she, as lonely and longing, as desirous of some iota of human contact that wasn't perfused with anxiety and awkwardness and judgement.