24 claps
— a tragedy in which the poet forgot that Medium had a sense of humour.
For the past three days,
we’ve been writing poems back and forth,
like two people trying to say something
their mouths have never quite been brave enough to say.
One poem from you,
one poem from me,
a little pain dressed up in metaphors,
a little affection hidden between lines,
and a thousand things we never say directly
because apparently,
we’d rather write literature than communicate like normal people.
And somewhere in the middle of all this,
you followed me on Medium.
I didn’t follow you back.
Not because I didn’t want to,
but because, in this ridiculous little tragedy,
you get notified whenever I write,
while I have to go looking for you.
Whenever I publish a poem,
I know it might find its way to your inbox,
a little email carrying another piece of me
that I couldn’t quite keep to myself.
But when you write one?
Nothing.
No notification.
No gentle little reminder from the universe.
Not even a tiny electronic whisper saying,
Hey, idiot. She’s written something. Go read it.
So I check.
And check.
And check again.
Refreshing Medium like a lovesick journalist
waiting for breaking news,
as though the fate of the entire world
depends on whether you’ve published another poem.
Three days of this madness,
and somehow,
I still haven’t learned to behave.
Then came last night.
I wrote An Unfinished Story Written in Turns,
poured whatever was left of my heart into it,
and pressed publish.
And the moment it went live,
I shut my eyes so tightly
you’d have thought I was trying to disappear
from the consequences of my own feelings.
I closed my eyes.
Closed the night.
Let the laptop rest against my chest
as though it were something precious
I needed to keep close.
And there I slept,
with my little digital confession
still somewhere on the internet,
waiting for you.
I don’t even know what I expected.
Perhaps another poem.
Perhaps another reply hidden in verses.
Perhaps just the comfort of knowing
that somewhere, behind your screen,
you’d read my words
and decided to answer them with yours.
Whatever it was,
I fell asleep hoping.
And then morning arrived.
I opened my eyes,
and before my brain could remember my own name,
before I could think about breakfast,
before I could even return to being a functioning human being —
I logged into Medium like Sonic the Hedgehog
on an emotionally devastating mission.
No warm-up.
No hesitation.
No dignity.
Just me, my laptop,
and the desperate little question:
Did she write back?
I checked.
Nothing.
I checked again.
Still nothing.
No new poem.
No reply.
No freshly published masterpiece
written in the language of whatever we were becoming.
Just silence.
And then —
TWENTY-FOUR CLAPS.
Twenty-four.
I stared at the screen.
My first thought?
Oh my God. Twenty-four people read my poem.
TWENTY-FOUR PEOPLE.
Twenty-four strangers had wandered into something
I’d written with one person in mind.
Something that was supposed to be yours.
Something that carried little pieces of our conversations,
our ridiculous literary back-and-forth,
and all the feelings I’d hidden
behind carefully arranged words.
And suddenly, I was panicking.
WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE?
WHY ARE THEY HERE?
WHAT HAVE THEY READ?
WHY IS MY HEART PUBLIC PROPERTY?
I had written a poem for you,
and apparently,
I’d accidentally organised a literary exhibition
for twenty-four members of the general public.
I was horrified.
I was nervous.
I was one click away from considering
whether the internet could be asked
to respect the privacy of a man’s emotional breakdown.
Then, with the courage of someone
who had absolutely no idea how Medium worked,
I clicked on the little clap icon.
And there it was.
Your name.
Just your name.
No twenty-three other people.
No audience.
No crowd of strangers applauding my secret little confession.
Just you.
And that was when I discovered
the single most important fact
about Medium that my three days of poetry
had failed to teach me:
Apparently, one person can clap more than once.
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TWENTY-FOUR TIMES.
YOU HAD CLAPPED TWENTY-FOUR TIMES.
And suddenly,
the tragedy collapsed under the weight
of its own stupidity.
I laughed.
God, I laughed.
I laughed so hard at myself
that whatever dignity I’d managed to preserve
over the past three days
quietly packed its bags and left.
Because there I was,
a boy writing elaborate poems about longing,
checking for your replies like a man awaiting a verdict,
sleeping with a laptop on his chest,
and waking up at the speed of light
to investigate twenty-four claps —
only to discover that the entire mystery
was you pressing the same button
twenty-four times.
And somehow,
that made me smile more than it should have.
Because you were there.
Your name was there.
You had read the words I’d written,
and for a moment,
I’d mistaken your twenty-four little claps
for twenty-four different people
witnessing something I’d meant only for you.
But it was just you.
It was always just you.
And perhaps that’s the part
I don’t quite know how to explain.
I had spent the entire night hoping
you’d answer my poem with another one.
Instead, I woke up to twenty-four claps,
a minor misunderstanding,
and the sudden realisation
that I had absolutely no business
being this emotionally invested
in a website I barely understood.
Yet I wouldn’t trade that ridiculous morning
for anything.
Because somewhere between the panic
and the laughter,
between my racing fingers
and your name on that little screen,
I realised how absurdly human this all was.
Two people writing poems back and forth,
hiding behind metaphors,
leaving little pieces of themselves
where the other might find them.
One of us receiving notifications.
The other refreshing the page like a man possessed.
One of us clapping twenty-four times.
The other nearly having a public relations crisis
over an imaginary audience.
And neither of us, apparently,
knowing how to make this any less ridiculous.
But listen —
I still wish you’d write another poem.
Not because twenty-four claps weren’t enough.
Not because I need you to prove that you read mine.
Not because I expect every feeling
to come back to me in perfectly rhyming lines.
I just like knowing
that somewhere beyond my screen,
you’re still writing.
That there might be another poem
with your thoughts tucked between its sentences,
another little piece of your mind
I can discover when I finally find it.
Because I can write whenever I want.
You can clap twenty-four times if you want.
But until I know how to receive a notification
when you decide to write,
I’ll probably keep checking Medium
like a man whose last remaining brain cell
has dedicated itself entirely to you.
And if you ever wonder
why I keep returning to that little page,
why I refresh it when I should be sleeping,
why I look for your words
even when I’ve already read everything you’ve written —
well.
Now you know.
It’s not because I expect a poem every morning.
It’s not because I think every silence
has some secret meaning.
It’s just that, for these past three days,
we’ve made a strange little world
out of words neither of us quite knows
how to say any other way.
And I suppose I’m not ready
to stop visiting it yet.
So, yes.
Twenty-four claps.
One very confused boy.
One girl who has apparently discovered
how to make a single button do the work of an audience.
And one unfinished story
that, for all its tragic metaphors,
has managed to make me laugh
at the most inconvenient hour of the morning.
And the funniest part?
I started this whole thing
hoping to find another poem from you.
Instead, I found twenty-four claps,
a new fact about Medium,
and a reason to laugh until my stomach hurt.
But if I’m being honest,
if I strip away the jokes,
the metaphors,
the embarrassing amount of refreshing —
there’s still one thing I wanted
when I opened my eyes this morning.
Not twenty-four people.
Not a hundred claps.
Not even a perfect poem.
Just one new thing from you.
And perhaps that’s the most ridiculous part of all:
I can turn an ordinary morning
into a whole tragic novel,
but the one thing that would’ve made me happiest
was something as simple as seeing your name
beside a poem you wrote.
So, please,
for the sake of my sleep schedule,
my remaining dignity,
and the future of literature itself —
WRITE SOMETHING.
Because I cannot keep surviving
on twenty-four claps
and my own absolutely unhinged imagination. 🤍
And just when I was about to declare my life officially over,
YOU POSTED ANOTHER POEM A FEW SECONDS LATER,
AND I SWEAR TO GOD,
I GOT MY LIFE BACK. 😭🤍
