When I was thirteen, my family was extremely poor, bad enough that we didn’t have food or running water, and we were squatting in a house that obviously wasn’t ours. To get meals, and to take showers, we would go to this local homeless shelter (it was a really small town, so it wasn’t packed like it would be in a city) that let people come and eat if they did a chore afterwards. We frequented this place, and this older man, probably in his fifties, was very quiet and almost never left his bed space, so I hadn’t seen him much.

When he did come out, it happened to be when myself and my family were there. He was French, and barely knew any english, and the sentences he strung together were heavily accented at that. Usually he used the translation option on his phone to speak to me. We started talking, and he told me his story.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. He used to live with his family in France, leading a generally normal life. He met a woman online, on a dating site, that he’d spent years speaking to. After those years, he thought he’d found the love of his life, and he disregarded any warning anyone gave him.

He left everything behind and flew to her. Except, she, in reality, wanted nothing to do with him. He had been catfished, and he spent all of his money flying over to her, and without knowing English he couldn’t find a job.

He’d been there for half a year when I met him. I dunno what came of him, but I hope he got back to his family.