HomeLove IssuesThis Could Have Been Us, But You Don't Answer Messages

This Could Have Been Us, But You Don’t Answer Messages

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This Could Have Been Us, But You Don’t Answer Messages

When I first joined Facebook in 2012, I knew very little about it. I had no idea there was a method to send a direct message. All I saw were images and postings from strangers. I didn’t like it, so I quit one day and didn’t return to the app for another year or two.

When my curiosity was sparked and I wanted to return, I couldn’t remember my password. I tried and tried for weeks before getting in. That was about 2014. My notification bar was bright red. A lot of messages. A lot of pokes. A lot of other stuff I don’t recall. I did my best to go through all of them.

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I returned some of the pokes and accepted all of the pending friend requests. My inbox was difficult to manage since many of the messages were from accounts I didn’t recognize, and the majority of the messages made no sense.

But a series of communications from one account piqued my interest. King Lito is the name of the man. He began texting me in April 2012. “Hello, gorgeous, may we be friends?” he sent in his first message. ” Later that month, he returned with another message: “I’m a wonderful guy.” Don’t pass judgment on me. “All I want is friendship,” he wrote a few weeks later. “I may be a good Samaritan to you, you might not know.” Why are you not responding to my messages?

He stopped by about once a week to send me a message from there. “Some men can be stubborn,” I thought as I read through all of the texts.

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What is it about digital friendship that drives someone’s son to message me every week for the past two years? I didn’t bother responding to his messages, and I didn’t even bother looking him up.

I received his remark on my wall on my birthday in 2015. “May God bring favor your way,” he continued, “but keep in mind that favor may come via someone, so when we give you messages, please answer.”

I laughed because I thought it was funny. Others thought it amusing and commented on it. “I’ve been sending her messages for the past two years, and she hasn’t responded,” he explained. “Please advise her to respond to my messages if you know her.”

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To be honest, the manner in which he was pursuing me in my email didn’t make sense to me, so I assumed he had a mental condition. That day, I wanted to react to him. I really wanted to know what he wanted from me and why he was being so insistent. But first, I read over his profile. He went to Harvard and worked at the IMF while living in Accra. He had recently checked into the Golden Tulip. Except for what he put on his wall a few weeks ago, none of this bothered me.

“Some of you ladies believe that every guy is pursuing you or searching for sex, so when we give you messages, you don’t react,” he continued, “but know this: if you grow tall till you reach God’s cheeks, it’s a man who will marry you.” You’ll be lying beneath a man, so be modest.”

If I had any doubts about his mental health, the status update verified them. “There’s no need to engage him,” I responded. He’s a psycho. ” I didn’t react to his messages as quickly as I should have, but he never stopped coming.

Initially, it was only once in a while. He’d appear and say, “Hello, how are you?” “Please react to my messages.” Then it became a monthly occurrence. “Please, it is my birthday,” he once stated. “I won’t be satisfied if I’m handed the entire planet to control.” “I wouldn’t be satisfied if I were handed all of the money in Ghana’s bank.”

“But if I receive a message from you, I will be overjoyed and declare that this is the nicest birthday I’ve ever had.”

I was cheering him on. “Wow, that’s actual eloquence.” Where did he get that idea? I wanted to react since it was so humorous, but then I realized, “The enjoyment will end the day I respond.” ” Let me enjoy him.” He then began to visit on a weekly basis. Every time I posted something on my wall, he replied and sent me a message. You’ll miss them when they stop arriving, no matter who you’re dealing with.

For several months, he stopped sending me texts. I should have been pleased. “Wow, tranquility at last,” I should have exclaimed, but I couldn’t. Now and again, I find myself wondering about him. I checked my inbox frequently to see whether he had sent me a message.

Matilda questioned whether King Lito was normal when I informed her about the texts. “But when I read her some of his notes, she laughed so hard that she formed a warm place for him.” “You’re extremely evil,” she remarked. I wouldn’t be shocked if you ended up in hell as a result of this. Would you have left your stupid ex if he had given you some of these messages?

I wanted to say hello to him and inquire where he was, but I didn’t. You don’t add gasoline to a fire that you don’t want to burn.

He returned. He was furious this time. “Who do you think you are?” he said. Even the most gorgeous woman on the planet would not do what you’re doing. Will you die if you say hello to me? You’ll do all of this, and when you’re elderly and without a spouse, you’ll rush to church and concern the preacher. “You have no idea what you’re missing.”

That was in March of 2017. I had heard so much from him that everything he said made me laugh. I had the option of blocking him, but I did not. I could have responded, but I recognized he was simply looking for a reaction from me. He would have gotten what he wanted if I had reacted.

I was also resolved not to bring him joy. That was the reaction he desired. I believe it was the reason he kept returning. He only needed a word from me to ensure that his years of toil were not in vain.

A man’s ego was shattered. Maybe he’d done it to so many other ladies on Facebook and gotten a reaction from each of them. I was not going to make him happy.

Matilda began addressing me as Mrs. Lito. She recounted the tale to her other friends, and they began calling me the same thing. They still address me as Mrs. Lito. Not on purpose. In my group of friends, it had become my moniker. They’ll tell you the story if you ask them why they call me that.

I never heard from him again in 2018. I kept checking his wall to see whether he had blocked me. He hadn’t done so. He wasn’t the type of man who posted frequently on his wall; therefore, there was no trace of any activity on his page.

That was probably his job—roaming around females’ inboxes, attempting to grab their attention. When I didn’t hear from him, I assumed he was busy in another woman’s inbox, repeating the words he wrote to me in the hopes of eliciting a discussion from them. “Perhaps he’d finally found someone,” I thought to myself before dismissing him. Matilda’s name was the one thing that kept drawing my attention back to him.

He sent me another message on February 7th, 2020. The message was accompanied by a photograph. Guess what? He was dressed in a black suit next to a woman dressed in a white gown. A wedding photograph.

“This might have been us,” he said, “but you don’t reply to texts.” She saw my message a year ago and answered. Continue to chat to kill lads while ignoring serious folks like us. “You’ll never marry,” I said. My neighbor assumed I was being tickled since it was so loud.

I initially thought he was playing a joke on me, thinking, “Perhaps he was the best man for a couple, and he is using that to tease me.” So I went to his wall and saw many other photos he had posted and read through all the congratulatory messages he was receiving. “Congratulations,” I wrote. You’ve finally located your misplaced ribs. I wish you nothing but happiness. “You’ve earned it.”

He didn’t answer my letter, but it did arrive in my inbox, and he said, “Thank you for your wishes, but I don’t need it.”

“But, Lito, aren’t we enemies?” My wishes originated from a good place. “I am delighted for you.”

“You should be ashamed. Are you replying to my texts now? Now you know I was serious the whole time. You blew your opportunity.”

“Oh Lito, you think I wouldn’t have answered your messages all this time if I liked you?” I know what I want, and if you were the one, I would have walked on all fours for you. “Take nothing personally.”

“Keep talking while in agony.” I know it hurts you.”

“Lito, enjoy your marriage. You and your wife should be on a honeymoon.”

I dialed Matilda’s number. “My heart is hurting, Matilda. Come visit me; I’m in tears. I blew a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. You guessed it. Seriously? George gave me his wedding photographs, and I’m here falling to pieces? She questioned. “I won’t lie to you,” I responded. “And he sends you photos?” “For what purpose?” “I asked. “He sent me photographs in an attempt to shatter my heart, and he succeeded.” We both busted out laughing. Matilda exclaimed, “What a guy!” I replied, “What a boy!” “

Isn’t this the conclusion of the story? He had, after all, obtained what he desired. He’d finally gotten a lady, and he’d received a response from me, so the narrative had to finish there, right? No.

Please wait for the punchline. His most recent effort to turn me green with jealousy

On December 31, 2021, I was in church, praying to God for favor for the following year, when the screen of my phone lit up. Lito has sent you a message. “What exactly is it again?” I questioned myself. “I’m going to start the new year as a parent,” it said in the statement. “My wife has just given birth. A happy newborn boy. “This might have been us, but you never return texts.”

I hope you’re married to the rich man you’ve been waiting for and have two kids by now.” I wanted to be glad for him, but the tone of his letter irritated me. I was attending church. I wasn’t going to let him ruin my heart in front of God.

I remained calm till I arrived home. “Congratulations, but what next?” I said. Photographs of your child’s first steps? Is it his first birthday? Are you expecting your second child? Are you even content? Concentrate on your marriage and ignore me. Get a reality TV program if you want to raise your family in front of me. I’ll keep an eye on it.”

When I pressed the block button, he was typing a response. something I should have done a long time ago, but believe me, it was enjoyable while it lasted. Matilda still refers to me as Mrs. Lito for some reason. If she must address me by my given name, she must make a concerted effort to do so.

But that’s all right. It concludes here.

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