“You sure take a lot of selfies,” my friend said while we were floating in the majestic pool at her house in Connecticut. Her two grown sons had gone inside, and her affable husband was preparing another round of special cocktails. She wouldn’t understand, I thought. How could she possibly?Lots of people share pictures on social media, but fewer at our age. I was never much of a rule follower, but the truth was, I was posting them to get a guy’s attention, one who’d been interested earlier but was slipping away. Maybe a pic of her husband and me, with my polka-dot dress, would make him jealous.Once we dried off, we went through old photo albums she’d set aside in a crate especially for my visit. We sat on plush couches and somehow were given divine permission to be teenagers again. Most of her photos were of her boyfriends and me, and my cigarettes ― aloof. She was always in a serious relationship, and I was the kind that was fiercely loyal to my friends and more of a free spirit ― even now. It was around that time, as a freshman at the state school by the mountain, that I first met the man who would become my digital pen pal over 30 years later. I returned from tennis, racket strapped over my right shoulder, when I heard a guy’s voice echoing down the hallway of my all-girls dorm.“Tennis, anyone?” he said cheerfully.I craned my neck to see him smiling at me, surrounded by a gaggle of girls. Girls were always surrounding him, but we still managed to become friends. In tennis, even when you have no points, no shot at all, you still call it love.I moved out of the girls’ dorm a few weeks later, then left the school altogether after just one year. I wanted a change. After I transferred, I rarely thought about that year, that guy, or any of it. That was until now.“We message and sometimes leave short videos about our day. He calls me his dream girl.” I cooed. “He works in Hollywood editing films.”Like a modern-day hieroglyphic — no words spoken, just pictures and symbols — it was crazy, especially at our age, but I devoured his attention. I thought we’d make such a great pair, me writing stories and he whittling them down to their most precious parts.“So, are you dating?” my friend asked. “Well, no, we haven’t met in person yet,” I explained.It sounded ridiculous out loud, but I continued.I could see the disappointment on her face, the same dejection I saw in others when I told them. They wanted more for me.But the world had gotten complicated these last few years: COVID, the loss of my mother and the distancing of friends. I didn’t have the wherewithal to dust myself off and try again. I preferred our bubble.The author as a teenagerPhoto Courtesy Of Elana RabinowitzIt’s a strange thing, nostalgia, how you give yourself permission to go back in time and feel a different way. Sitting in my friend’s living room, looking at those pictures, I could barely remember that young, feisty girl, although remnants of her remained. But that freshman year of college – the one I was so quick to erase — a part of me wanted it back. I wanted time back.Our messaging started innocently. He liked some pictures, I clapped for his movie release, and then we just started chatting like the oldest of friends. I’d post a picture of farm stand vegetables, and he’d have something sweet to say. It became addictive. As a writer, texts and emails came so naturally to me — I felt like a screenager. He asked if I remembered him. You played soccer and dated a girl on my floor, I wrote as if it were yesterday, not decades ago. I could picture him, tall, in an oversized Champion sweatshirt, making the girls laugh during a fire drill. It made me giddy to think that he was interested in me.Early on, when we started our “refriendship,” he said he was coming to New York and wanted to meet up for dinner. We’d meet upstate since his good buddy lived there. I was excited and nervous.I vetted him with some friends we had in common. The consensus: He was a great guy with a touch of goofiness. He was funny; really funny. Such a pleasant change from the serious guys I dated.We were in constant contact that summer as I prepared for his visit. Sadly, he never made it my way. Hurt, I tried to make sense of why I felt so connected to him. In the fall, I returned to teaching. The crisp air missed New York in those early days; instead, a steamy breeze hit for most of September. I figured our communication would dissolve, but he kept sending me messages whenever I posted ― “Too keewt,” or “hot for teacher.” He’d send thoughtful ones, too. It turned out we actually had a lot in common.I was posting so many pictures that I started getting other guys’ attention, which, while flattering, I didn’t enjoy. With the editor, it was different; he was an old acquaintance and felt safe.I was surprised at how much I was starting to like him, but deep down, I wasn’t sure we’d actually be attracted to each other IRL. When I told him so much, he just wrote back“As if.”I laughed.The following week, an intersection in the East Village was being renamed Beastie Boys Square, and I wanted to go to the event badly. I was such a fan and wanted a chance to revisit that time in my life. He was visiting his kids and we were messaging frequently, but I was ready to see him. “You should just come to NY.” “I’ll let you know if I do.”I asked just about everyone I knew to join me, but no one could. Still, no way was I going to miss this. So, I put on a summer dress and took the train to the city even though it was brutally hot. I took pictures, listened to the music and remembered how it felt growing up with the Beastie Boys’ songs in the background. How fun, I thought. If he were here, we could’ve gone together.Still high from the event, I started swiping through everyone’s stories. I saw a big red circle around his. I thought I might finally get a glimpse of his family life. Instead, I saw something entirely different. It was him and a guy with a salt-and-pepper goatee holding up a copy of The New York Post ― “Beastie Boys Celebrate Renamed NYC Intersection.” He was freaking there!It felt like a sucker punch. All those messages, all those promises, and here he was in the same zip code and not a word. I reached out to him and got an apology. “Sorry, I missed you ― too many obligations.” I was crushed.Later, I looked closer at the pictures I had posted. It was hard to make out at first, a guy in a white T-shirt and glasses in a group at the square. But then I gasped. It was him. He was just a few feet in front of me, and I would have never recognized him. When I sent him the screenshot, he wrote back.“This is heartbreaking now…”He was as close to me as he had been in that hallway at college, and IRL, we had no idea who the other was. There was a lull, but eventually we were back ― stronger — more promises of meeting in person. I still felt that rush every character, every message. He even sent me a sweet video for my birthday.Then one day, he went off social media for good. He had to focus on work. At first, I hated it. I was still searching for his stories like a phantom arm. But eventually, I was relieved. I no longer had to see his life in pictures. Without photos, he stopped reaching out and barely replied to my texts. The bubble had burst. Game. Set. Match.The author celebrating at the Beastie Boys eventPhoto Courtesy Of Elana RabinowitzFor now, I am going to try to live more in the present. But boy, do I miss those early messages and the connection I felt. I’m already nostalgic for them.Unfortunately, nostalgia has a way of distorting the past, making it better than it really was. Despite my hopes for more, I can now see simply reconnected at a time in our lives where we both needed an escape. The fantasy was further filtered through the medium of social media, where we communicated primarily with DMs, likes and hearts. I realized most people communicated this way now. It’s becoming rare for anyone to pick up the phone and have a long conversation; it’s less common for my girlfriends to get together the way we used to.When school let out, and I returned upstate for the summer, I was determined to keep busy meeting new people in the real world. I refused to have another digital summer.So I threw on a red dress and headed to a nearby town to get something to eat. On the way, I saw a sign for an art pop-up and moseyed in. There I was greeted by a friendly guy with familiar eyes. He took a liking to me right away, gave me his card, and told me to call him.After I purchased some art, he gifted me a bright pink tote bag and asked me to take my picture modeling it.No more selfies, I thought, and I smiled for the camera.Do you have a compelling personal story you’d like to see published on HuffPost? Find out what we’re looking for here and send us a pitch at pitch@huffpost.com.