Unfiltered & Online: How Digital Interactions Shaped My World And What They Means To Us

2005: The Secret Life of the Yellow Running Man

I just said goodbye to Lydia who sat next to me on the bus. On the bus, Lydia had asked me what my plans were after school. Nonchalantly, I would respond with a list of regular to-dos including homework, TV shows, and a family dinner. But there was something I wouldn’t tell her, even if I wanted to. My real after-school obsession—my biggest secret in the 5th grade—sat safely hidden, something I wasn’t sure if it was okay to be so obsessed with.

Before even changing my uniform from school, I would head to the computer room. Almost automatically, my hand reached below to the firm, slightly recessed button on the tower’s front—click. As I swayed side-to-side on the revolving desk chair, as the modem dialed in, the screen flickered to life with the sequence of robotic beeps and static crackling beneath the desk. And then, there it was — my favorite icon of a yellow running man. I would click it without hesitation.

A cheerful "You've Got Mail!" rang out as the chat window popped open. My eyes would dart to the familiar usernames on the right, scanning the list—waiting, hoping. No green light yet, but soon. That’s when I would finally spread out my homework materials on the desk, grab a pen, and divert my attention equally to both the papers and the screen in front of me. There was nothing more anticipating than the green light coming on next to the username, LegendaryTaco8.

LegendaryTaco8’s name sat grayed out on my buddy list, untouched by the green light I had been staring at for two hours. At school, Richard Ramsay did not say a word to me, nor even look at me. But here, in the soft glow of my monitor, he was something else entirely. It was a secret that weighed inside my body pleasurably. Not much homework was getting done as my eyes stayed fixed on the screen for a green light next to Richard’s username. Then, finally, a soft chime. The green light beside his name blinked on, and my heart jumped.

Hey, his message popped up.

Heyyy, I typed back, fingers nearly flying over the keys. Within minutes, we were deep in conversation—flinging acronyms and inside jokes back and forth like secret codes, little fragments of ourselves were sent across the digital divide. It was easy to be open here, hidden behind the screen; it was as if my username was a spell that brought out a side of me that I didn’t display in the real world.

We whispered secrets through typed words, things we’d never dare say looking each other in the eye. It was like stepping into a different world, yet we were still the same people—connected in a way that felt both distant and deeply familiar.

As we went through the semester, LegendaryTaco8’s name would still constantly appear, but the frequency of a green light leading to a message started to plummet. I still wrote messages as casually as possible hoping to revive the rhythm we had, but the responses—in the rare occasion that they came—felt shorter and rushed.

Gone were the nights of laughing at acronyms only we understood, replaced by a dwindling sensation of anticipation, disappointment, delayed replies, and anxiety.

One afternoon at school, I saw him—Richard Ramsay—standing by the lockers, his arm casually draped over Sarah Jennings’ shoulders. My heart dropped as I realized. Richard was LegendaryTaco8, and they had found someone else here, in the real world. It made me question if our interactions in the digital world had ever meant anything.

I went over the archive of the sea of messages that we exchanged - the chatter, jokes, and the secrets - just to confirm that it all wasn’t just a dream, but something that actually happened - well sort of. It had happened all in a different dimension, and perhaps all the interactions made over there didn’t mean that it happened in the real world.

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2010: When ‘Likes’ Became Currency

I had moved to Korea and started to stay connected with my friends through a website called Facebook. They shared snapshots of their summer camps, late-night study sessions, and casual moments in the school hallways. Meanwhile, I posted pictures of my experimental makeup looks, sketches of my favorite rock bands, and group shots with new friends at my school.

In the early days, despite the time zone differences, we exchanged messages frequently, keeping up with each other's lives like nothing had changed. But, much like with LegendaryTaco8, our conversations in the digital space gradually became less frequent, as the real world crept in—schoolwork piled up, new friendships formed, and life got busy.

Sitting down to log into Facebook started to feel like a luxury, like a brief escape into the online oasis of funny memes, celebrity news, and online forums like Reddit. Messaging a friend across the globe felt like an even bigger commitment. Our interactions grew simpler—just a few clicks on the thumbs-up icon, maybe a quick “I miss you <3 <3” in the comments, enough to say we still cared, but those clicks were never quite enough to bridge the distance.

A shadow fell over me the first time one of my close friends didn’t give me a thumbs up on one of my sketches. I couldn’t help but wonder—had I upset her by taking too long to reply to one of her messages? The truth was that I was simply being forgotten. I realized this as I moved on and went through my own life. As much as I loved the digital world, the real one still had a stronger pull, for all of us.

And from there, the exchange of thumbs up between us became sporadic. It was just the absence of a tiny icon—just a single click we weren’t making—but it felt like she didn’t care as much anymore. I found myself keeping score, measuring how much my friends cared by how quickly they liked my posts, and how often they reacted. And I started doing the same for them, habitually liking posts from the people I cared about, knowing that even the smallest gesture could lift them a little throughout their day.

As I met new friends, I always remembered to ask them to add me on Facebook. I secretly loved watching the number incremental rise of the showcased number of Friends on my profile. Among my new friends, there was Sam—a sweet guy from the school theater club, always theatrical, with a flair for drama that everyone knew about. We had a lot in common, especially our love for posting pictures of bold, experimental makeup looks.

He also liked to write these short, clever essays on Facebook about the movies he watched, whether they were fantastic or utterly terrible. His posts always had a humorous edge, and I’d spot them in the endless scroll of my feed, effortlessly sending him little gifts of dopamine with a quick tap.

By then, Facebook had become familiar, and with smartphones in our hands, the time we used to dedicate to it on a desktop was slowly being swallowed up by other responsibilities, and Facebook had become more of a small and easy game that we could play anytime in between our responsibilities.

Then one day, I saw a post that stopped me cold. Sam had written about the death of an old woman, alone and rotting in her shabby house. "The stench of her decaying body stung my nose," it read, "I felt like I was in hell with her, covered in dirt and bugs.". I was stunned. For the first time, I had glimpsed the darker side of Sam—the side he never showed in theater club, the side I’d never expected. All this time, I had only known him as my bright, theatrical, funny friend, never once considering how multi-faceted we all are.

My thumb hovered over the screen, just above the thumbs-up icon. Sam’s words filled the display, dark and unsettling, the details of the old woman’s lonely death playing in my mind. I shifted in my chair; the weight of his thoughts pressing down on me. It twisted something inside me; the image too graphic, too real. I felt a knot of discomfort tighten in my chest.

How could I "like" something so haunting? But then again, Sam... he needed to know someone was there, someone who cared. But did sending a thumbs up, a shot of dopamine, really help Sam at this point? I remember hesitating, then deciding not to press "like" on that post. Looking back, I wish I had sent him a message instead, something real, something more than just scrolling past.

But at the time, our relationship existed mostly in the currency of likes. As close as I’d felt to him, I realize now it was an illusion. The uncomfortable truth was that we had never really shared the kind of connection where we could be vulnerable with one another.

Still, I’m thankful to have seen that other side of Sam; even if it was through a screen. Since then, I’ve watched him grow into a paramedic, piecing together his journey through the moments he selectively shares online. To this day, we exchange likes on most of each other’s posts—marking our presence in the simplest way, letting each other know that we are witnesses to each other’s lives.

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2024: A New Normal In a Busier Society

Making connections with friends online has become so routine that I no longer entertain the naive hope that they’ll turn into something more meaningful in real life like I once did with LegendaryTaco8. Now, I’ve learned to embrace these connections for what they are—online friends. Our interactions are brief and enjoyable, with intensity ebbing and flowing in waves until it eventually fades.

Rarely does anyone completely vanish, as real-world factors, like Sarah Jennings, seem to have less influence over online interactions. If someone goes silent in the digital realm, it's typically because they’re on a “detox”—an increasingly popular practice. Being online has become intrinsic to real-life existence, blurring the lines between the two realms.

These days, it’s unusual for someone not to have a digital presence, though digital identities without an obvious “real” life remain hidden, existing only behind the screen.

Sharing secrets online has become second nature. I’ve come to realize that the things I share in the digital world rarely have any real impact on my physical life. What happens in the digital dimension stays there, much like LegendaryTaco8’s affection for me never crossed over into reality. The digital world has become my sanctuary- even as I grew older, it remained a place where I express a different side of myself.

I’ve sent private photos on Snapchat, complete with a self-destruct timer—sharing these time bomb images has become a new kind of love language. And that extra thrill when someone screenshots them? It’s a thrill, a quick hit of dopamine mixed with risk. We’ve all seen celebrities haunted by old pictures resurfacing, but life moves too quickly these days to dwell on future risks tied to online fun.

Having my pictures screenshotted even feels oddly affirming: for a brief moment, I wasn’t just seen—I was saved, archived, to be remembered and looked back at.

Over time, giving and receiving Likes—now, more often heart icons on Instagram than a thumbs up on Facebook—has become more of an automatic routine than any gesture of care. But even though I know these Likes don’t carry the same weight they once did, it still feels good to be acknowledged, to stand out in someone’s endless scroll of daily content. It’s a small reminder that, in the midst of their own busy lives, they paused, if only for a second, to notice.

Our lives have grown busier, not just because we’ve become adults, but because we’re living in a modern world that prioritizes work and productivity above all else. As a society, we’ve made huge strides in efficiency—U.S. labor productivity grew by about 1.4% annually between 2007 and 2019. But with these gains, we’ve sacrificed a lot of the time and energy we once used to really get to know people face-to-face.

Instead, we’ve replaced that time with brief, sporadic digital interactions. A few taps on a screen, and suddenly we’re connected with anyone in the world. It’s quick, it’s convenient—but it’s different.

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Redefining What Connections Means in The Digital Age

In life, there is always a trade-off. In this digital age, we’ve received high productivity and innovation in trade of the old ways of interacting. We gave up privacy in exchange for an opportunity to embrace the multi-faceted nature of mankind. And we’ve connected with countless people across the globe but sacrificed our connections to local, physical communities.

And yet, despite the trade-offs, digital interactions remain valuable. While it's easy to mourn the days when relationships felt more tangible, when face-to-face conversations were the norm, the truth is that the digital world has offered us something profound—a new space to express ourselves, connect with others, and witness the lives of people we care about, even from a distance.

The moments we share online, though sometimes fleeting, still have weight. They remind us that connection doesn't have to be bound by physical presence.

Whether it's a quick message or a tap on the heart icon, these interactions, as small as they may seem, carry meaning. They remind us we are part of each other’s lives, even if the form of that connection has evolved. Digital relationships, like any other, may fade, but they leave traces.

They leave memories. And sometimes, they even surprise us by blossoming into something more, just as Richard's real-world connection did with Sarah, or how I continue to witness Sam’s journey through the snippets of life he chooses to share online.

In the end, the digital age hasn’t robbed us of connection; it’s simply redefined it. The tools may have changed, and the ways we interact may have evolved, but the essence of relationships—care, attention, and presence—remains the same. Whether online or offline, we still find ways to show up for one another, to remind each other that we exist, that we matter.

So as we continue navigating this digital landscape, let’s remember to cherish those moments, brief, or extended. After all, in both dimensions—digital and physical—what truly matters is that we continue to connect, to care, and to show up, in whatever form that takes.

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Sources:

• U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics. (2020, February 6). Productivity and costs, fourth quarter and annual averages 2019 (Publication No. USDL-20-0213). U.S. Department of Labor. //www.bls.gov/news.release/archives/prod2_02062020.pdf