A chance Snapchat add leads to a slow-burn love story between two strangers who become lifelong partners
It started with a misclick, a blurry photo of a coffee cup that was meant for her sister that was sent to a stranger named “Jax_93.” Luna stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the delete button. But something about the username made her pause. She waited ten minutes, then a reply came. “Nice latté. Looks like you needed it.” Luna laughed and then replied with a selfie, eyes half-lidded and a caption: “Finals week. Send help.” Jax sent back a photo of his dog, a Jack Russell. “Therapy dog. Certified in vibes.” They snapped back and forth for hours. Luna learned that he lived in Sydney, worked as a manager washing trucks, and had a habit of sending photos of the trucks. She lived in Brisbane, and wrote novels and poems and had a weakness for artwork and photography. Neither of them asked for a phone number. Snapchat was safer and ephemeral. A place where you could be honest without permanence.
Weeks passed and then months. They sent each other everything, photos of meals, street art, half-written poems, and sleepy selfies. Luna started looking at Jax’s snaps before she brushed her teeth. He sent her goodnight messages with the caption “Snap you in the morning.”
One night, Luna sent a photo of her sketchbook. A design for a library shaped like a spiral. “I want it to feel like a memory,” she wrote. Jax replied with a voice note. “That’s beautiful. You make things that last.” Luna listened to it three times. Not because she didn’t hear it the first time, but because she likes the sound of his voice. They started calling each other sweet nicknames. “Morning mumma bear.” “Sleep well, Sexy.” The snaps grew larger, more vulnerable. They started opening up to each other about past trauma that they both have experienced. They didn’t talk about love directly. But it was definitely there, in the way they noticed each other’s silences, and in the way they said “be safe” instead of “goodbye.”
One night, Jax sent a snap of a plane ticket. “Brisbane, for three days. If you want.” Luna stared at it for a long time. Then sent back a photo of her front door. “Snap me when you’re here.” He did. They met in the rain. He was taller than she expected. She was warmer than he’d imagined. They hugged like people who’d known each other in dreams. They spent the weekend walking around the city. No itinerary, just stories, and just time. He played the guitar in the hotel lobby while she sketched the curve of his hands. She showed him the spiral library and he whispered, “it feels like you.”
On the last night, they sat on her fire escape, watching the city breathe. “What happens now?” Luna asked. Jax looked at her. “We keep snapping. Until it’s not enough.” It wasn’t. Six months later, Luna moved to Sydney, got a job designing community spaces and Jax still worked day shifts but shorter hours. They bought a car for Luna together and Jax brought a neon sign that said “You’re Home.”
They still used Snapchat, not because they had to, but because it was theirs. A record of beginnings and a place where love had first flickered.
On their wedding day, Luna carried a bouquet wrapped in ribbon printed with their first snaps. The coffee cup, his Jack Russell, and the spiral sketch. Jax whispered, “Snap me when you’re mine.” She did. Afterward, they danced under string lights, their dog weaving between guests. Jax played the guitar. Luna sang softly, her voice trembling with joy. Years passed. Their love deepened. Not always easy, there were arguments, long days, moments of doubt. But they always returned to each other. To the snaps. To the sign above the couch. Their lives are filled with ordinary magic, grocery lists, shared playlists, and late-night drives. Luna designed a community centre shaped like a spiral. Jax taught guitar to kids who didn’t know what grief sounded like. They still snapped at each other, sometimes silly, and sometimes sacred. A photo of Luna’s muddy boots after a hike, a video of Jax humming while cooking or a blurry photo of their dog curled between them on the couch.
One night, Luna found an old snap saved in her memories. It was the coffee cup, the very first one and she showed it to Jax. “You replied so fast,” she said. He smiled. “I knew it was you.” They sat in silence, the kind that feels like music. Later that year, they decided to travel to Brisbane. Luna showed Jax her old apartment, the fire escape, and the spiral library. They took a photo in front of it, holding hands. Luna captioned it: “Still feels like us.” Jax replied: “Always will.” They printed the photo and hung it above the couch in the lounge room. Beneath it, the neon sign glowed softly. “You’re Home.” It glowed softly, casting a warm pink hue across the lounge room. Luna curled into Jax’s side, her sketchbook balanced on her knee. He was reading a novel, one hand absently patting their dog’s ears. Outside, Sydney rain tapped gently against the windows.
“I want to design a space where people feel like this,” Luna murmured. Jax looked up. “Like what?” She gestured around them. “Safe, seen and soft.” Jax smiled. “Then you already have.” They didn’t rush anything. Their life unfolded slowly, like a story told in snapshots. Luna’s career bloomed and she designed a youth centre like a spiral, inspired by the sketch she’d once sent Jax. Jax taught guitar part-time, volunteered at the hospital, and sent her midday snaps of sheet music and sunbeams.
They traveled together. Canada, California, and New York. Luna took photos of the architecture; Jax snapped her laughing in front of murals. They saved every image not just in memories, but in a shared folder called “Us.”
One winter, Luna got sick. Nothing serious, but enough to slow her down. Jax made her soup, left sticky notes on her pillow, and sent snaps from the kitchen: Still your favourite?” “Extra garlic.” “Snap me if you need tea.” She did. Every time. They started talking about forever, not in grand declarations, but in quiet choices. A joint savings account, a second dog, a drawer full of printed snaps, and each other captioned in Luna’s handwriting.
One Autumn, Luna found out she was pregnant. She sent Jax a snap of a tiny pair of shoes, captioned: “Guess what?” He replied with a photo of the spiral library. “They’ll grow up surrounded by stories.”
Their daughter was born in late July. They named her Xena after the warrior princess. Jax snapped her first yawn. Luna snapped her first giggle and they created a new folder: “Xena’s World.” As Xena grew, she learnt the language of love through images. She’d point to the neon sign and say, “Home.” She’d ask for bedtime stories from the snap drawer and she’d send her first snap at the age of five, a photo of her stuffed bear, captioned “Bear is sleepy.” Luna and Jax watched her grow with awe. Their love had become a legacy, a rhythm, and a record.
One evening, Xena asked, “How did you meet?” Jax pulled out the drawer. “Want to see?” They showed Xena the coffee cup, the dog, the spiral, and the fire escape. Xena giggled. “You fell in love with pictures?” Luna kissed Xena’s forehead. “We fell in love with the person behind them.” That night Jax sent Luna a snap of their daughter asleep between them. Captioned “Still your favourite?” She replied with a photo of the neon sign. “Always.”
And somewhere, in the quiet glow of their home, a new story began.
Bio:
Brittany Szekely is a mother of three living in Mount Tarampa,QLD, Australia. I'm a writer of poems and short stories and sometimes paints abstract art.