My dearest one, my sweetheart, my everything, I call to you from the far right-hand side of the browser window. Well, not the far right-hand side, a little to the left of it, near the tab for “The Only Cheese Fondue Recipe You’ll Ever Need,” which is a white box with a red E in it—if you find that, go two to the left, and I’m here. Calling to you. Waiting for you.

Don’t you know I pine for you, my darling? Don’t you know that only in the light of your gaze do I have a form, a purpose?

You’re distracted, wooed by other tabs. I understand.

“How Noah Kahan Seized His Moment”: of course you’d like to know. We all would.

“Take the Internet’s Most Accurate Enneagram Test”: yes, a wise idea, for the quest for self-knowledge is the project of a lifetime.

“$1.1 Million Homes in New York, Illinois, and Washington”: No, you don’t have that kind of money now, but one day, in the vague future, for hazy reasons, you certainly might.

They are all worthy tabs, my love, in addition to the thirty additional ones, but you must sense that I can give you what none of the others can: true understanding. Unending joy. Carnal passion.

Come back to me, my softness. Come back to “36 Hours in Barcelona.” Let us explore Catalan cuisine and Mediterranean sights together. Take my hand and let me once more whisper the words “car-free pedestrian walkways” into your ear. Embrace me as I explain a fashion designer whose garments are flowy and modern all at once.

Yes, that’s it, take a break from your Enneagram tab. Deep down, you know a personality test can tell you that you’re a helper, but only I can show you how to help. Yes, a quiz can confirm that you yearn to break free from the pack, but only I can be your Sancho Panza as you roam free.

Oh, my sweet, wait, no, stop. You’re researching Noah Kahan lyrics. You’ve come across the line, “I saw your mom, but she forgot that I existed.” Now you’re trying to remember your ex-girlfriend’s mom’s name from 2009 by going to the school’s staff directory where she used to work.

I understand, but my love! Please! Return to me!

I am growing weary, so weary, my darling. Once upon a time, eighteen minutes ago, we had love. We held the light of eternity in our hearts. Now, as time’s distant horizon darkens and fades into the past, there are only vast silences punctuated by the briefest flicker of memory.

Sometimes, in my bleakest moments, I wonder whether you even remember what text I display. Do you recall me, my love? My headline, my sub-headline, my scent?

Do the words “glazed eel atop pickled onions and buttery brioche” mean anything to you anymore? How about “a single artichoke, its leaves perfectly charred, its heart holding a lightly poached quail’s egg”?

Because they still mean everything to me, my sweet. To me, each of the forty-six seconds we spent together was a lifetime of dearness and affection. That three-fourths of a minute made me think there is something beyond car-free pedestrian walkways, and beyond a grilled maitake mushroom set afloat in a pool of pine-nut sauce, which we still do not understand. It is a zone of transcendence, of connection, of completeness. It is a zone that, for lack of a better term, must be called el amor.

Look at me. Here I stand, beside “Download Your Full Enneagram Personal Report for Only $18,” in the pouring rain, on a car-free pedestrian walkway, ready to start our new life together. Come to me. Strip off my clothes. Put your lips upon my single charred artichoke.

Perhaps you are thinking, my love, that you have never been to Barcelona, have no plans to go to Barcelona, and may never go to Barcelona at any point for the rest of your life. But oh, my sweetness, don’t you understand that Fate has brought us together for a reason? In two months, when you are flying from Chicago to Boston, it’s likely that, soon before landing, the pilot will jam on the accelerator instead of the brake accidentally, which is how planes work, and suddenly, your journey will take you across the Atlantic.

“Where shall we land?” the copilot will ask.

“We shall land where the sea meets the shore, where sunshine flickers and dances on car-free pedestrian walkways, where a chervil-slicked mushroom carpaccio recreates an El Bulli classic. We shall land—in Barcelona.”

“Of course,” the copilot will respond. “But due to a standard witch’s curse, our passengers and crew will be able to stay only for thirty-six hours, and then we must immediately fly home.”

A pilot’s announcement on the speakers, a cup of watery Sprite in your hand, you’ll know that every moment with me had a purpose.

You’ve decided to spend eighteen dollars for a twenty-page Enneagram report. Sure, wonderful. But, my love, at the end of the report that you’ll barely skim, know I will be waiting, ready to whisk you away to La Rambla. We shall close our eyes, and our love will flourish as we sip a gin-and-matcha blend in a mug shaped like an origami bird.