Syncing Frequencies

A fictional short story about sapphic love, distance, and digital longing.

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If only I could elevate my vibration to the next level, tune into an even higher frequency. I can flip the script, direct my life how I want it to play out, she thought to herself as she walked through the rain, kombucha in hand, the tin cold against her fingertips.

The train in her mind continued. What if I’ve already been creating my own reality the entire time? What if none of this is even real?

In that case, I can do anything. I can be anyone I choose to be.

How many roles have I played in my life? Estate agent, accountant, croupier, salesperson, receptionist, bar owner—the list goes on. Now I’m an artist, a painter, creating and expressing on a canvas with a paintbrush.

Her senses were already fine-tuned. Maybe peri-menopause had something to do with how sensitive she was. The energy around her felt almost palpable. The rain was coming down fast; the muffled sound of water hitting her leather jacket had picked up its rhythm.

She hurried along, crossing at the traffic lights.

Maybe smoking that joint with Clinton at midday wasn’t the brightest idea.

I’m just stoned, having one of those ridiculous flat-earth moments.

Elodie’s thoughts and ideas always elevated beyond her normal understanding when she smoked weed.

We’re moving deeper into the digital age. We’re forming connections online. Perhaps tapping into a higher frequency can strengthen the bonds we make—friendships, and now even love—with people we have never met. Isn’t that where we are heading? Isn’t that the future?

The woman she had connected to online wove herself into her mind as she breathed in deeply, almost sighing. A smile crept up as she visualised Rossetti’s Proserpina—her silky blue gown draped around her shoulder, lips blood red, the pomegranate she holds in her hand bringing her hope.

Hope that she will one day find her way back into the light.

The image gave Elodie her own sense of hope. Both the painting and the woman online were unreachable in her physical world. But hope always shimmered symbolically, just like the pomegranate.

Were we discovering and evolving into an advanced form of love?

Had I moved up Plato’s ladder? Physical desire was no longer the primary attraction—intellect was at the core of this desire.

Are we falling in love energetically with other humans, plugging into each other? Tumbling over one another and slipping into their current, syncing with them without even trying?

A face she had never touched. A face as mesmerising as Proserpina. She was a voice and an image carried across the wires, across oceans, across time zones. The ping of a message lit up her chest like a flare. How strange it was, how fast she had learned to feel it—every alert a tiny jolt, a hit of something that wasn’t quite love and wasn’t quite addiction but moved through her bloodstream all the same.

She was syncing. That was the only way she could describe it: the frequencies shifting, aligning, becoming something else, something bigger than just her alone in the rain.

She didn’t know what any of it meant. All she knew was how this digital fantasy made her feel. Her aura, her voice, her eyes when she looked directly at the camera—they pierced into Elodie’s soul.

Maybe I’m just starving for intimacy?

It had been two years since her last relationship. Since the break-up she had put a pause on dating, choosing to protect the last shattered fragments of her heart.

She was piecing them together slowly, like kintsugi—a heart full of cracks but all the more beautiful for it.

Lola, an old lover, had been in touch, inviting her to Berlin. A lover that was tangible. Still, Lola’s mind was barely in the physical world. She had been plagued with depression and bipolar disorder for years, leaving her unable to distinguish between her hallucinations and the physical world.

They had met in 2006 at a bar in Berlin, The Black Lung—German metal blasting out of the speakers into the dark and smoky atmosphere.

Lola stood out in her kitten heels, stockings and long black overcoat with a fur trim, loosely holding a cigarette up to her lips.

Elodie watched her take a slow drag, tilting her peroxide-blonde head up just enough to catch her eye. She held the gaze as she inhaled smoke into her lungs, her expression unreadable, her eyes fixed on Elodie. She let the cigarette fall, crushed it under her black kitten heel, and moved towards Elodie, their eyes locked.

The images crossed Elodie’s mind like an old sepia movie. I would love to see Lola again.

I suppose I could go and visit her if she was to give me dates. She does disappear. I might not hear from her again for a few years.

Her communication always collapsed during an episode. The last time Elodie saw her it was both intense and intimate — but Lola’s fragmented state of mind was already blurring the edges of reality.

— — —

Elodie unlocked the front door, glad to get out of the rain. Her apartment was scattered with piles of books, many still waiting to be read. She went into the kitchen and positioned the kettle carefully under the tap.

Kettle on, she went into the living room and picked up her phone. She opened the app—there she was, hair falling over her shoulders, talking magnetically to the camera.

“I’m curious,” she said. “What distracts you from keeping focus, what keeps you from becoming the optimised version of yourself?”

“I guess I’m keeping myself distracted,” Elodie said out loud.

Oh, if only you knew how much I distract myself. I spend hours having conversations with you. Wondering what you smell like, what your skin would feel like on my skin. The drips of communication we have are like manna—they feed my soul.

After careful consideration, she typed in a message:

I spend far too much time in my thoughts and imagination. They distract me and entertain me. Is that bad?

She smiled as she re-read it, her thumb hovering over send. Then she quickly hit send, put the phone down and walked back to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

The anxiety of pressing send quickly kicked in.

I’m not flirting, she thought as she poured the steaming water into her tea-stained cup.

Subtly, very subtly. It’s hardly noticeable. Maybe she’ll pick up on it. I’m sure it will bring a smile to her face. I know she knows. But she’ll keep it professional, and I’ll keep the boundaries in check.

Maybe it’s too much? Maybe I’m too much?

Every time we have a dribble of conversation my mind just runs away with me. Maybe this is safe for me. I feel elevated by her, validated, but at a safe distance. I won’t feel the ache of rejection. If I’m creating my own reality, maybe this is what I want—something that feels safe.

Convincing herself that she wasn’t sabotaging was an art she had perfected.

— — —

Lola wasn’t safe. She was the opposite. Unpredictable—drama, chaos and paranoia were the main characters. But she was real, tangible and accessible.

The second time Elodie had been to Berlin, Lola had picked her up from the airport. She had insisted Elodie stay with her and her husband Hans.

Lola’s apartment was as quirky as she was. She had a huge collection of Hello Kitty paraphernalia, pink walls and retro pieces of furniture scattered strategically around the open apartment. Hans worked late at the Deutsches Theatre, so Lola and Elodie would stay up late into the night. Conversation, wine and cigarettes mingled with the music softly drifting through the room, the nights long and intoxicating.

Back in her own flat, Elodie thought about these two very different but deeply compelling women—both quirky in their own unique way.

Even her attraction to them was laced with quirks. The woman behind the screen was grounded, disciplined and intelligent. Lola was the drama that Elodie was familiar with.

And both were unavailable—physically and emotionally.

One in tangible form, the other lucid like a dream. Neither was right: the two of them taken. One by madness, the other by an ocean.

Suppose she thought about these two women for exactly those reasons. They were safe, locked in her fantasies. No way of getting hurt, no rejection.

At least that’s what she told herself.

Elodie walked to the sash window, holding her cup as the steam floated in the cold air of the room. She looked out at the sky, heavy with grey rain clouds. The blank canvas she had bought a few days ago waited patiently for her brush.

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Milk and Cigarettes original artwork by Tiina Tuovinen