Love, as a concept, does not make me swoon. It makes me reach for my vomit bucket with the urgency of someone spotting a wall painted aggressively pink. Not because I am some tragic, hollow shell of a human (though I am sure the panel of imaginary judges is still reviewing that claim), but because “love” in Second Life gets tossed around like budget confetti … loud, excessive, and absolutely everywhere. No aim, no restraint, just empty words, like those darn hugs everyone hands out in text. Every Tom, Dick, and pixelated Henrietta gets the deluxe package: hearts, whispers, dramatic pauses, and the inevitable “I love you” typed with the emotional investment of ordering extra cheese. Casual. Reckless. Spineless, even. The word has been through so much it should qualify for a pension.
That said. Yes, pause and admire the sheer gravity of that phrase. That said.
There is a non-zero chance I am talking straight out of my own derrière here, considering I am not exactly drowning in heartfelt, earth-shattering declarations myself. I am aware of this. I have acknowledged it, examined it under good lighting, and gently placed it on a metaphorical shelf labeled “Personal Bias, Handle With Care”. Humbling? Sure. Character-building? Let us not get carried away. But it does bring me to the actual point of this whole ramble – Luna. Journey. LuCat and JoCat. And, annoyingly enough, a love story I cannot quite roll my eyes at.
Last Sunday there was a wedding dress rehearsal, which I missed, because of course I did. Life, pixels, and my personal brand of chaos operate on a schedule best described as “theatrically uncooperative.” But Monday? Monday I showed up. I met up with the bride, and Chaos, her co-conspirator in all things organized. Luna got dressed up just for me, stood there in full pixel perfection while I did my usual routine: snapping pictures, making commentary, pretending I am not invested.
We tried voice. Technology said “no.” Luna had issues, but Chaos? Chaos turned on voice for the first time for me, and, honestly, rude. Completely unfair to sound that good. Warm, smooth, matching her presence in-world like it had no right to. Luna dipped out after the photos, Chaos and I talked a bit longer, proper conversation, no performance, no posturing, and then I TPd away.
Later, in the SKOLS Discord Channel, we all did what mainlanders do best: subtly (not subtly) flexing our parcels like proud little digital land barons. Luna drops hers, coordinates included, bold move. I teleport in. She was there. And this time? Her voice worked.
And she turns it on. For me.
Now, understand something: I treat attention like a rare commodity. I do not throw it around. And voice in SL? That is the premium level of interaction. So when she flipped that switch deliberately, for me, that lands. That “means” something. I was honoured … and I do not use that word lightly, or with confetti.
We talked. And eventually I asked the question that had been quietly lurking in the background this whole time … “How did you and Journey even get here?”
She told me.
They were friends first. Actual friends. Before the wedding buzz, before the kiosks and the Linden dollars stacking up on the “YES” side like a rigged election, it was just two people … existing. Together. Luna was ready to leave SL altogether … done, finished, hitting the X for good. And Journey, instead of waving goodbye like a normal person, said, essentially: “What if you stayed … but differently?”
Enter: Dinkie life. Smaller avatars, slower pace, no pressure to perform. Just … wandering. Exploring. Existing without a script. She said ok. They drifted through the grid the way people do when they are not trying to impress anyone or get anywhere. And then, because apparently subtlety occasionally wins, one of them just blurted it out … “I love you.” No build-up. No theatrical monologue. No caps lock. Just… there.
And that is the version of love I cannot mock without feeling slightly fraudulent. Not the loud, neon, copy-paste version handed out like flyers on a street corner. The quiet kind. The one that sneaks in when no one is paying attention, built on time and presence and the simple act of “staying”. No grand gestures. Just: “Here’s something different.” And the equally simple response: “Okay.”
It is absurd, really. That something entirely made of pixels manages to feel more real than half the “real” things people parade around. And yet, here we are. Second Life doing what it does best, making the improbable genuine.
So. The bucket.
For LuCat and JoCat’s wedding, for these two delightfully feral creatures who found something real in the quiet corners between events and chaos and mainland nonsense, I am leaving it at home. I might even bring tissues. Until then …
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