I wasn't going to go out.
In fact, I was fully committed to my night of solitude—blanket buritoed on the couch, hair in what could only be described as emotional distress mode, and Netflix politely judging me for still watching.
So of course, Stacy showed up at my door like a one-woman intervention squad.
The knock was loud enough to wake the dead—or at least my neighbor's cat—and before I could respond, she pushed the door open with her foot, arms full of supplies: wine, takeout, and emotional manipulation.
"Surprise!" she chirped. "I come bearing noodles and questionable advice!"
I groaned. "Stacy, it's Thursday."
"Exactly," she said, toeing off her heels. "The perfect night to bully you into happiness."
She kicked the door shut, marched into my living room, and immediately began rearranging throw pillows like she owned the place.
"Shouldn't you be out ruining someone else's emotional stability?" I asked.
"I'm multi-tasking," she said. "Now scoot over, heartbreak Barbie."
I sighed and made room as she unloaded our dinner. "If you're here to talk about dating apps, I swear—"
"Oh, relax," she said, pouring wine into mismatched mugs because my adult life didn't include actual glasses. "We'll start with carbs. Then we'll ruin your peace."
We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the kind that only comes from long friendship. The noodles were good—too spicy, but they numbed the ache I'd been carrying since Liam. For the first time all week, I didn't feel like crying into a cup of coffee.
Which, of course, is when Stacy struck.
"So," she began casually, "about that dating app…"
I groaned. "You promised."
"I promised nothing. Come on, Soph. One little profile. What's the worst that could happen?"
"I could end up in a true crime documentary."
"Even better," she said, grinning. "You'll go viral."
"Stacy—"
"Nope. Not listening." She reached for my phone. "Where's your app store?"
I lunged for it. "Give me that! I'm not doing this."
She held the phone just out of reach. "You're twenty-three, not eighty. It's time to get back out there. Liam's not the last emotionally stunted man on Earth."
"Comforting," I said dryly.
"Besides," she added, topping off my wine, "you need a distraction. Think of it as... field research. For your master's in psychology."
I hesitated. "You're saying I should psychologically analyze strangers for fun?"
She grinned. "Exactly."
I laughed despite myself. "You're impossible."
"And yet, you love me," she said.
She wasn't wrong.
Fine. One app. One profile. No expectations. Just curiosity—and maybe a little revenge against the universe.
I downloaded MeetMate, silently questioning every life choice that led me to this moment. The icon appeared on my screen, mocking me with its pastel heart logo.
"Okay," I muttered. "What do I even write?"
"Something witty," Stacy said, leaning over. "Like 'Barista with trust issues seeks someone who can handle sarcasm and caffeine.'"
I smirked. "That's dangerously close to the truth."
After a few edits, my profile read:
Barista, grad student, professional overthinker. Fluent in coffee and dry humor. Looking for someone who doesn't treat communication like an Olympic sport.
"Perfect," Stacy said. "Now pick a photo where you look cute but mysterious."
"Do I own one of those?"
She scrolled through my camera roll like a woman on a mission. "This one," she said finally, pointing to a candid photo of me laughing with a latte in hand.
I rolled my eyes. "Fine. But if I get catfished, it's on you."
"Please," she said. "If anyone's getting catfished here, it's probably them."
The app finished loading, and I was greeted with an endless scroll of faces.
"Alright," Stacy said, rubbing her hands together. "Time to swipe."
The first guy's bio: 'Crypto trader. Love my car more than my mom.' Swipe left.
The next: 'Looking for my player two.' Swipe left.
Another: '6'2 because apparently that matters.' Swipe left so fast I nearly dislocated my thumb.
"Wow," I muttered. "Humanity really peaked with sliced bread."
Stacy snorted into her wine. "You're too picky."
"I'm filtering out red flags, not applying for sainthood."
After ten more tragic profiles—including one man holding a taxidermy raccoon—I sighed and tossed my phone onto the couch. "Nope. Done. I'd rather marry my espresso machine."
"Don't be dramatic," Stacy said, scooping it back up. "One more. Just one."
"Famous last words."
But I took the phone anyway, ready to prove my point.
Then, a new profile loaded.
It was simple. No gym selfies, no fish, no motivational quotes. Just a photo of a man sitting outdoors, sunlight on his face, half smiling at something off-camera. He looked… calm. Grounded. Like he knew who he was and didn't need to prove it.
The name just said E.
His bio was short:
"Coffee, travel, and bad puns. I don't do this often."
"Mysterious," Stacy said, leaning over. "I like him already."
I studied the photo. He wasn't flashy, but something about him felt magnetic—like still water with hidden depth.
"He's probably secretly weird," I said.
"Or secretly perfect," she countered. "What's the harm in one little swipe?"
Every logical part of me screamed don't do it. But my thumb moved anyway.
Swipe.
A soft ping echoed. Then, the words appeared:
It's a match!
My pulse stuttered. "Oh no."
"Oh yes!" Stacy squealed, clapping. "You matched! See? I'm a genius."
I stared at the screen. There it was: his photo, his name, the little chat bubble waiting for me to type something.
I didn't, of course. I just sat there, pretending I was completely unfazed while my stomach did somersaults.
"Message him," Stacy whispered, eyes sparkling.
"Nope."
"Come on! Just a hi. Or a gif. Or—"
"Stacy." I gave her a look. "I'm not starting this with a dancing cat meme."
She sighed dramatically. "You're killing romance."
"I'm preserving my sanity."
We cleaned up dinner, laughed about our collective bad luck, and eventually she left, still buzzing with victory.
When the apartment was finally quiet again, I sat on the couch, staring at the glowing screen.
E.
I didn't know who he was. But there was something about that profile—simple, steady, unpretentious—that made me want to know more.
I locked my phone, set it aside, and smiled to myself.
For the first time since the breakup, I didn't feel broken.
I felt… curious.