One late night, me and my world-hopping partner slid through VR like ghosts in neon—jumping portals, vibin’ in poetry spots. That’s where “Sugar” met “Tea.” Two avatars, two heartbeats, six hundred miles apart, but somehow sittin’ side by side in the same headset dream.
At first, it was playful—shared lines, laughs floating through cheap mics. But then my homie wasn’t really with me anymore. His avatar stood there in the room, but behind the goggles? He was gone, locked in with her. That’s when I realized I wasn’t a duo anymore—I was the wheel on a car that didn’t need me.
Night after night, we roamed together—me, Sugar, Tea. But I watched the sparks turn into a fire. They became inseparable. My first time seeing a VR love story form right in front of me. Not emojis. Not role-play. Real emotion spilling out of digital skin.
But love in the metaverse? It bends quick. A few months later, things got cold. Conversations froze when I stepped in. Eyes avoided me. Worlds that once felt open suddenly felt locked. Nobody explained, and I didn’t ask. But I knew—something had cracked.
Sugar used to thank me for bringing her the love of her life. She even shouted out my first VR world, The Black Paradox, built from my photography. That love faded, but my art stayed alive, floating like a star in its own galaxy.
Then came the call. Sugar was broken. She told me Tea had flipped his status to “Do Not Disturb,” sneaking around with someone new. And the wildest part? The new girl wore the same avatar as Sugar. Same face, different soul. Like she’d been copied and pasted out of his heart.
Screenshots circled, friends whispered, and I got dragged into the storm. Suddenly I was unwelcome in the very rooms I helped build. I cut ties, unfriended folks, and kept pushing.
If love in VR makes you laugh, cry, and heal the same as love in real life… who’s to say it ain’t real?
Later, Tea hit me up. We met inside The Black Paradox, my world still glowing. He spilled his side: “She’s jealous, controlling, always on me.” He ranted the way she had ranted, both pointing at each other, both hurting in their own way.
Listening to him, I just sat back like—wow. All this emotion, all this pain, and it’s in VR. But feelings don’t care about format. Love in a headset cuts as deep as love in the streets.
So I told him what he needed to hear: “You gon’ be alright.”
Lessons Learned
VR don’t soften the blow. It amplifies it. Behind every avatar is a person with a heartbeat, and when those beats sync up, it feels real—sometimes too real. I learned you can’t be shocked when digital spaces carry real-world weight. And I learned not everybody you meet in a headset deserves access to your spirit.
So here’s the question that still sits with me:
