There are exactly nine times a day I tell myself I don't care that "E." hasn't messaged me.
Seven of those times, I'm lying.
It's been a week since we matched. Seven whole days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours of pretending I don't check my phone every time it buzzes. My screen time report is starting to look like a cry for help.
I keep telling myself I'm over it. That it's fine. That it was just one tiny, accidental swipe on a stranger who probably deleted the app and went back to his perfectly mysterious, non-digital life.
Except… he hasn't unmatched me.
Which means something, right? Or maybe nothing. I don't know anymore.
Between my thesis proposal, back-to-back shifts at The Bean Scene, and Stacy's daily updates on her latest situationship (currently a guy who texts in haikus), I shouldn't have time to obsess over a man whose full name I don't even know.
But the brain is a petty little organ.
I catch myself checking MeetMate in the middle of lectures, while the professor drones on about behavioral pattern recognition. I like to imagine he's talking about me—how I'm becoming a textbook case of mild delusion.
Sometimes, between pouring cappuccinos and dodging Marco's espresso puns, I'll glance at my phone, pretending to check the time. Just in case.
Nothing.
By the sixth day, Stacy catches me doing it.
"Still waiting for Mr. Mysterious?" she asks, leaning across the counter, her smile far too knowing.
"I'm not waiting," I lie. "I just—checked a notification."
"From a dating app you haven't opened in three days?"
I squint. "Are you stalking my screen time again?"
"Please, you're not that hard to read. You've got that tragic heroine energy." She puts a hand to her chest dramatically. "'He matched, then vanished into the digital void, leaving behind only confusion and mediocre lighting.'"
"Very funny," I mutter, though my smile betrays me.
She grins. "Maybe he's just shy. Or bad at texting. Or, you know, dead."
"Wow, that's comforting."
"I'm a giver," she says proudly. "Want me to text him for you?"
"No! That's—" I almost choke on my coffee. "That's desperation."
"That's initiative."
I sigh, rubbing my temples. "I'm not texting first. If he wanted to talk, he would've. End of story."
"Sure, sure," she says, unconvinced. "You keep that feminist pride strong, babe."
That night, I'm hunched over my laptop, surrounded by open textbooks and half-drunk mugs of tea. My thesis on emotional regulation is due in two weeks, which is ironic considering I've completely lost control of mine.
My phone sits next to the keyboard like a tiny, glowing gremlin. I try to ignore it. I really do. But it's there—taunting me.
After an hour of pretending to focus, I give in.
MeetMate opens to the same chat screen as before. His name—E.—still sitting at the top like some kind of unsolved riddle. No messages.
I stare at it for a moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard. What if I just said hi? Casual. Breezy. Totally not desperate.
Then I imagine Stacy's smug face if she found out, and I lock my phone again.
Nope. Not happening.
The next morning, I oversleep and end up sprinting to class with half-dried shampoo in my hair and a to-go cup clutched like a lifeline. Professor Daniels raises an eyebrow as I slide into my seat.
"Late again, Miss Bennett?"
"Character development," I mumble, and he sighs in that long-suffering academic way.
By the time I get to work, I'm running on fumes and caffeine. Marco slides a latte across the counter toward me with a smirk.
"Rough morning?"
"Define rough," I say, taking a sip. "If I die, bury me with my coffee machine."
"Noted," he says. "Any updates from your mystery man?"
"Did Stacy tell you too?"
He grins. "She told everyone."
Of course she did.
I groan. "I swear, if I ever actually meet this guy, I'm telling him he's indirectly responsible for workplace harassment."
Marco chuckles. "Maybe he's waiting for the right moment."
"Or maybe he's one of those people who just wanted the ego boost of a match."
"Hey, maybe he's allergic to commitment and push notifications."
I laugh despite myself. "Perfect. My type."
The day drags by. Every time the door chime rings, my stomach does a ridiculous little flip, like maybe. Maybe he'll walk in. Maybe he'll order a latte, smile, and say something clever.
He doesn't, of course.
By the end of my shift, I'm covered in coffee grounds and regret. I shut down the espresso machine, humming quietly to fill the silence.
That's when my phone buzzes.
I almost ignore it, assuming it's Stacy sending me another meme. But something in me pauses.
The notification isn't from her.
It's from MeetMate.
My heart stutters.
I open it before I can think.
E: So, I'm assuming the silence means you're either incredibly mysterious or you've been kidnapped by caffeine addicts.
I blink. Read it twice. Then again.
He texted.
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it—half disbelief, half relief.
I'm grinning like an idiot now, alone in a dark coffee shop.
Of all the lines he could've sent, that was the one. Witty, casual, just the right amount of funny.
I stare at the chat box, heart thudding. For a second, my brain short-circuits. After a week of silence, I don't even know how to start.
Then I type back.
Me: Would you believe a little of both?
I hesitate, then hit send.
Immediately, the typing dots appear.
E: Well, as long as you're alive, I'll count that as a win. I was starting to think I scared you off.
Me: Please. I don't scare that easily. Unless we're talking about thesis deadlines.
E: Ah. A woman of intellect and chaos. My favorite combination.
My cheeks warm. God, I hate that.
We keep texting for a while—nothing deep, just light, easy banter. He's clever but never arrogant, funny without trying too hard. Every reply feels like a small spark flickering through my phone screen.
By the time I finally say goodnight, it's nearly midnight. I set my phone down, still smiling, my heart doing that annoying fluttery thing it hasn't done in months.
It's stupid. It's reckless. But I can't help it.
For the first time since Liam, I feel… something new.
Hope, maybe.
Or maybe just trouble.