Too filtered.
Esh—not filtered enough...
Girl holding a fish—cute. Very cute.
Another swipe.
Another.
Another.
And then?—
I freeze.
There she is.
Online.
A little green dot glowing next to her name like a slap to the face. Active now. Swiping. Still looking.
I tap on her profile like an idiot, even though I’ve already seen it. Memorized it. Matched with it. That stupid bio I used to think was clever. That smile I’ve kissed. That face I used to wake up thinking about.
My stomach knots.
Shehadme. She. Fucking. Had. Me.
Why does she feel the need to… to… keep looking. What was I, just a pit stop? A placeholder? A mistake she’s now actively trying to swipe out of her memory?
My throat tightens. I scroll through her photos even though it makes me feel like shit. Her in that sundress. Her at the beach. Her laughing at something off-camera.
I’ve wondered how her new apartment is for three weeks, not giving myself the permission to reach out, not wanting to come off as thirsty or desperate.
A harmless inquiry wouldn’t kill either of us, eh? And if she ignores me, then I know…
I shouldn’t care that she’s swiping on the apps. That she’s possibly meeting someone else. Possibly laughing at someone else’s stupid jokes. Possibly curled up in someone else’s sweatshirt that doesn’t fit her nearly as well as mine did.
I slam my eyes shut. Because now I’m imagining that guy. The one she’s swiping right on.
I sit up too fast and Nugget jolts from his spot at the foot of the bed, staring at me like I’m unstable. Which, fair.
This is pathetic.
I’m not this guy. I don’t pine.
I grab my phone again. Open her profile.
And this time, I don’t just stare.
I type.
thirty-four
. . .
Turner: Hey stranger. How’s it been going?
Poppy: Hi you! I was just thinking about you.
