The kind of guy you want to root for, who probably tips well and calls his mom on Sundays.
I try to picture myself at breakfast with him, or at the park, or even just making out in the back of his car.
But every version of the fantasy ends up interrupted by a flash of memory I can’t delete, the gym, Darius’s hand on my shoulder, or the steambath, the weird pulse in the air, or the time he drove me home and didn’t even try to say goodnight, just let me get out of the car and walk into the darkness alone.
It’s like my brain doesn’t want me to move on. Like it’s built to self-sabotage.
I scroll again, and again. It’s not even about the people anymore.
It’s about seeing if I can get a rise, any rise, out of the universe. Can someone say something fucked up enough, or true enough, or even just mean enough to make me want to reply?
The answer is no.
Eventually, I thumb over to the old group chat, the one with O’Doul and Raz and half the team.
It’s still active, still full of memes and ugly jokes and the kind of gallows humor you only get in a room where everyone is dying a little.
I type a reply, just a GIF, nothing real, and instantly regret it. I set the phone back on the coffee table, this time screen-down, like maybe that will stop the world from getting in.
I stare at the ceiling. The crack has grown, or maybe it just looks bigger at night.
I imagine it splitting all the way through, the whole building collapsing, my body entombed in a sarcophagus of drywall and junk mail. It’s a peaceful thought.
My eyes sting, probably from lack of sleep or just the blue light poisoning.
I close them, hope for blackness, but all I get is a slideshow of things I should have said, or done, or not done.
The time I almost kissed Darius, the time I almost told him how I felt, the time I almost told myself to get over it and failed.
I open my eyes. It’s still dark. The world is exactly the same, only I’m more tired.
I grab the phone one last time. This time, I don’t bother with the apps.
I just go to the home screen, watch the little bubbles of notifications pile up, then swipe up and close them all, one by one. Tinder, Grindr, Messages. Gone.
It’s not satisfying, not really, but at least it’s a choice.
I toss the phone onto the far end of the couch. It lands with a dull thunk, rolls until it’s teetering on the cushion. I let it fall.
I lie there, hands folded over my stomach, eyes unfocused.
The fridge ticks over, the radiator pipes let out a shudder. Somewhere in the building, someone yells at someone else, a voice sharp and brief as a whistle.
The loneliness is heavy, but at least it’s honest.
For a minute, I wonder what Darius is doing right now. If he’s sleeping. If he’s even thinking about me. If he ever did.
I try to imagine a future where it doesn’t matter.
Where I can just exist, swipe and match and go through the motions until the next big thing happens, or until I decide to get off the merry-go-round for good.
It’s not a future I want, but it’s the one I get.
I let my eyes drift closed again.
This time, I don’t fight the darkness. I let it press in, heavy and certain, the only thing in my life that hasn’t let me down.
The city keeps moving. The world keeps spinning.
