The App That Changed Everything

I'm lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling of my tiny apartment, trying to figure out when my life became this pathetic. It's been six months since Marcus cheated on me. Six. Whole. Months. And I'm still here, alone on a Friday night, eating leftover Chinese food and pretending I'm fine. I'm not fine. My laptop is open on my desk with some boring paper I'm supposed to finish by tomorrow, but I can't focus. The words are blurring together, and honestly, who cares about Victorian literature right now? Not me. Definitely not me. My phone buzzes. It's Sophie, my best friend and roommate, who's currently out on her third date this week. The text says: *Coming over. Don't say no. I'm already outside.* Before I can respond, I hear her key in the lock. She bursts through the door like a tornado, blonde hair flying, carrying two iced coffees and wearing that look on her face that means she's about to do something I won't like. "Emma Rivera, we need to talk." I sit up, already annoyed. "If this is another lecture about how I need to 'put myself out there,' I swear to God—" "It's exactly that." Sophie plops down on my bed, shoving one of the coffees into my hand. "Babe, I love you, but you're becoming that girl. The one who stays home every weekend, rewatching the same shows, eating sad takeout, and acting like love doesn't exist anymore." "Love doesn't exist. Marcus proved that pretty clearly when he fucked that nursing student." "Marcus was a dick," Sophie says bluntly. "But not all guys are Marcus. You can't let one asshole ruin everything." I take a sip of my coffee and look away. "I'm not ruining anything. I'm fine. I'm focused on my graduate work. That's healthy." "That's bullshit." Sophie grabs my phone off the nightstand before I can stop her. "When's the last time you went on a date? Talked to a guy? Hell, when's the last time you even swiped through a dating app?" "Never, because those apps are garbage." "Wrong answer." Sophie's already tapping on my phone screen. I try to grab it back, but she's too quick, jumping off the bed and holding it out of reach. "Sophie, stop. Whatever you're doing—" "I'm downloading Proximity. It's this new dating app that shows you how far away your matches are. Perfect for you because you can talk to guys without actually having to meet them right away." "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard." "No, what's dumb is you wasting your twenties being bitter about Marcus." Sophie finishes whatever she's doing and tosses my phone back to me. "There. All set up. You're welcome." I look at the screen. Sure enough, there's a new app icon. Proximity. The logo is a little heart with a location pin. I want to delete it immediately. "I'm not using this." "You don't have to." Sophie grabs her purse and heads for the door. "But it's there if you change your mind. Which you will, because you're bored and lonely and it's Friday night and you've already finished your sad Chinese food." "I hate you." "Love you too!" The door closes behind her, and I'm alone again. I stare at the app icon for a long minute. This is stupid. I don't need a dating app. I don't need a guy. I'm perfectly fine on my own. But my thumb is already tapping the icon before I can stop myself. The app opens to a profile creation screen. I should close it. Instead, I start filling it out. I use my initials—E.R.—because no way am I putting my full name on here. For the photo, I chose one Sophie took of me last month where you can't really see my face clearly, just me looking out at the sunset or some artsy crap like that. Bio. What the hell do I even write? I type: *Literature grad student. Coffee addict. Not looking for anything serious.* Good enough. Vague enough. Whatever. The app asks for my preferences. Age range: 25-35. Distance: I slide it all the way to 500 miles. If I'm doing this, I'm doing it safely. Far enough away that I won't accidentally match with someone on campus. Then the app loads, and suddenly I'm looking at profiles. Most of them are exactly what you'd expect. Shirtless gym photos. Guys holding fish. Bios that say things like "I'm not like other guys" or "Looking for my queen." I swipe left on all of them without even reading past the first line. This is why I don't do dating apps. They're all the same. All disappointing. I'm about to close the app and go back to my depressing paper when one profile makes me stop. The photo isn't a photo, really. It's just a silhouette. A guy's profile, no face visible, just the outline against some kind of window or light. Mysterious. Kind of pretentious, honestly. But his bio makes me pause. *A.H. | 31 | "I'd rather read a book than have small talk. If you're not going to say something interesting, don't say anything at all."* Okay. That's different. I stare at the profile for longer than I should. There's something about it that doesn't feel like all the others. It's not trying too hard. It's just... honest. Before I can overthink it, I swipe right. *It's a match!* My heart does this stupid little jump. I immediately feel ridiculous. It's just an app. It doesn't mean anything. But then a message pops up, and I nearly drop my phone. **A.H.:** *So what are you reading right now?* Not "hey." Not "what's up." Not some gross pickup line. Just a simple question that suggests he actually read my profile. I bite my lip and type back. **Me:** *Right now? A terrible academic article about feminist interpretations of Victorian literature. You?* His response comes quickly. **A.H.:** *Recently finished rereading The Picture of Dorian Gray. Sometimes the classics are better the second time around.* **Me:** *Oscar Wilde fan?* **A.H.:** *Guilty. You?* **Me:** *I appreciate his work, but I'm more into the Brontë sisters. Give me Wuthering Heights over Dorian Gray any day.* **A.H.:** *Interesting choice. So you like your romance dark and a little destructive?* I stare at that message for a second. Is he flirting? That feels like flirting. **Me:** *I like my romance honesty. Heathcliff and Catherine were a mess, but at least they were real about it.* **A.H.:** *Fair point. So you're a literature student who values honesty. Got it.* **Me:** *Got it? Are you taking notes or something?* **A.H.:** *Maybe. Is that weird?* **Me:** *A little. But I'll allow it.* We keep talking. And talking. I don't even realize how much time has passed until I glance at the clock and see it's almost midnight. We've been messaging for over an hour. He asks about my day, and I tell him about my classes, about my thesis that's slowly killing me, about how my thesis advisor is this arrogant professor who makes me want to scream half the time. **A.H.:** *Tell me about this professor. What makes him so arrogant?* **Me:** *Where do I even start? Professor Cross is brilliant, I'll give him that. But he's also impossible. He tears apart every paper I write, questions every source, and acts like nothing I do is ever good enough. And he has this way of looking at you, like he can see right through any bullshit you're trying to pull.* **A.H.:** *Maybe he just sees your potential and wants to push you to reach it.* **Me:** *That's a very generous interpretation.* **A.H.:** *Or maybe he's just an asshole. Hard to say without meeting him.* **Me:** *Definitely an asshole. A really hot asshole, which makes it worse.* I freeze the second I hit send. Did I really just tell this stranger that my professor is hot? What is wrong with me? **A.H.:** *So you're attracted to him?* **Me:** *No. I mean, he's objectively attractive. Anyone with eyes can see that. But I can't stand him as a person.* **A.H.:** *Thin line between hate and attraction sometimes.* **Me:** *Not in this case. Trust me.* **A.H.:** *If you say so.* I can practically hear the amusement in his text. For some reason, that makes me smile. We talk about other things. He tells me he works in academia too, which explains why he understood my complaints about Professor Cross. He's vague about details, which I appreciate because I'm being vague too. This isn't about real life. It's just... conversation. Connection. Something I haven't felt in a long time. Around one in the morning, I finally tell him I need to sleep because I have class in the morning. **A.H.:** *This was nice. Talk tomorrow?* **Me:** *Maybe. If you're interesting enough.* **A.H.:** *Challenge accepted.* I set my phone down and lie back on my bed, staring at the ceiling again. But this time, I'm smiling. I don't know who A.H. is. I don't know what he looks like or where he lives or anything real about him. But for the first time in six months, I feel something other than anger and hurt. I feel... hopeful. Maybe. I fall asleep with my phone next to my pillow, and when I wake up in the morning, there's a new message waiting. **A.H.:** *Good morning. Coffee and Victorian literature await. Try not to let that professor get under your skin today.* I'm grinning like an idiot at my phone when Sophie walks past my room. "Told you you'd use the app!" she yells through the door. I don't even have it in me to argue.