By the time the house went quiet each night, the only light left on was the pale glow of my phone.
Thirty-four isn’t old, not really—but it felt ancient when every relationship milestone existed only as a checklist of things I’d never done. No first love, no disastrous breakup, no ex I pretended not to miss. Just work, sleep, repeat. Friends drifted away into marriages and mortgages while I stayed behind, perfectly preserved in loneliness.
That’s how I ended up downloading the app.
I told myself it was temporary. A curiosity. Something to fill the silence between midnight and exhaustion. I chose my photos carefully—nothing too desperate, nothing too posed. A smile that didn’t show my teeth. A bio that tried to sound funny without begging.
I swiped for weeks.
Nothing.
Then one night, while brushing my teeth and half-watching myself age in the mirror, my phone buzzed.
MATCHED.
Her name was Elena.
Not glamorous. Not influencer-perfect. Just… real. Soft eyes. A crooked smile. One photo showed her holding a chipped mug in what looked like a messy kitchen. Another had her laughing mid-motion, blurred and human. No filters. No hashtags.
She messaged first.
You look like someone who hates small talk. Good. I do too.
I laughed out loud.
We talked for hours. About music neither of us admitted to liking. About jobs that drained us quietly instead of loudly. About how loneliness felt heavier when shared spaces stayed empty too long.
She didn’t flirt aggressively. She didn’t overshare. She listened.
That alone felt intoxicating.
After a week, she suggested we meet.
Not a bar. Not a restaurant.
“My place,” she said. “I cook better than most places around here anyway.”
I hesitated. I knew the rules. Meet in public. Tell someone where you’re going. Trust your gut.
My gut said yes.
I told myself that was bravery, not desperation.
Her address was only fifteen minutes away, in a neighborhood that looked normal enough. Streetlights. Parked cars. A porch light glowing warm against the dark.
She answered the door barefoot, wearing an oversized sweater and a tired smile.
“You’re taller than I expected,” she said.
“So are you,” I replied, immediately regretting how stupid that sounded.
She laughed anyway and stepped aside to let me in.
The house smelled like garlic and something sweet—caramelized onions, maybe. Soft music played somewhere deeper inside. It felt lived-in. Comfortable.
Safe.
We talked while she cooked. She moved easily around the kitchen, occasionally brushing past me, close enough that I felt warmth but not threat. She poured wine. Asked questions. Listened to answers.
At some point, I realized I hadn’t checked my phone once.
Dinner was incredible. I told her so, and she looked genuinely pleased, not coy.
“People don’t compliment food enough,” she said. “They just eat and forget.”
Afterward, she suggested dessert.
“Just give me a minute,” she said, heading down a narrow hallway. “Bathroom’s on the left if you need it.”
I waited. Sipped wine. Looked around.
That’s when I noticed the photos.
Not family. Not friends.
Men.
All different ages. Different styles. Some smiling, some serious. Each framed neatly, lining the hallway wall like a timeline.
I stood up, curiosity prickling.
They weren’t posed photos. They looked… candid. Cropped from other images. A man mid-laugh at a bar. Another squinting into sunlight. One holding a coffee cup identical to the one Elena used earlier.
I reached the end of the hall just as she called out, “Almost ready!”
Something about the word almost made my chest tighten.
I turned back toward the living room.
The floor shifted under me.
Just a little. Enough to throw off my balance.
Pain exploded behind my eyes.
When I woke, my mouth tasted like copper and panic.
I was lying on my back, wrists and ankles bound—not tightly, but thoroughly. Leather straps. Buckles. Careful knots.
Above me, a ceiling fan spun lazily, clicking once per rotation.
Elena stood beside me, calm as ever, holding my phone.
“You left it unlocked,” she said gently. “You should be more careful.”
I tried to speak. My throat burned. My tongue felt thick.
She noticed and brought a glass of water to my lips, tilting it just enough to let me swallow.
“There,” she said. “I don’t want you uncomfortable.”
I tested the restraints. They didn’t budge.
“Why?” I croaked.
She sat on a stool, folding her hands in her lap.
“Because you came,” she said simply.
“That’s not—”
“It is,” she interrupted. “You read my messages. You saw my photos. You chose to be here.”
Fear crawled up my spine, cold and intimate.
“I won’t hurt you,” she continued. “Not unless you make it necessary.”
I laughed, a broken sound. “You already did.”
She tilted her head, considering.
“Pain is relative.”
She stood and walked toward the hallway.
“Let me show you something.”
She returned with a small box. Inside were phones. At least a dozen. All different models. All powered off.
“I keep them,” she said. “People panic when they lose things. I like order.”
My phone joined them.
“What do you want?” I asked.
She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.
“I want honesty.”
She pulled a chair closer and sat facing me.
“Tell me why you swiped right.”
I blinked. “Because I liked you?”
“That’s the answer everyone gives,” she said. “Try again.”
Silence stretched.
“Because I was lonely,” I admitted.
Her shoulders relaxed.
“There it is.”
She nodded slowly, as if I’d solved a puzzle.
“Loneliness makes people honest,” she said. “It makes them brave. Reckless. It brings them to doors they wouldn’t normally knock on.”
She stood again and paced.
“I used to swipe too,” she said. “I used to believe the profiles. The promises. I believed effort meant intention.”
She stopped in front of the photo-lined hallway.
“They always left,” she continued. “Or stayed long enough to take something and disappear.”
She turned back to me.
“So I stopped letting them leave.”
My heart hammered.
“What happens now?” I asked.
She considered the question carefully.
“Now,” she said, “we see how honest you really are.”
She asked me things.
Not passwords. Not secrets.
Things that hurt.
When was the last time someone touched you without wanting something?
What do you hate about yourself?
Have you ever imagined disappearing?
Hours passed. Or minutes. Time warped around her questions.
Each answer felt like pulling a wire out of my chest.
She listened. She nodded. She never mocked.
When I cried, she waited.
Finally, she stood.
“You’re different,” she said.
Hope flared before I could stop it.
“You feel real,” she continued. “That’s rare.”
She reached for the buckles.
My breath caught.
“I don’t keep the real ones,” she said softly.
She loosened my wrist.
Relief flooded me so fast I nearly sobbed.
Then she tightened it again.
“But I also don’t let them leave.”
I stared at her, understanding too late.
She leaned down, close enough that I could smell the wine on her breath.
“You don’t need to go back,” she whispered. “You don’t need to swipe anymore. You don’t need to be alone.”
She pressed her forehead to mine.
“I chose you.”
The ceiling fan clicked.
Once.
Twice.
Somewhere in the house, my phone buzzed—another notification from the app.
Another match.
She smiled.
“Dinner tomorrow,” she said. “We’ll need more chairs.”
The fan kept spinning.
And I realized the straps weren’t restraints.
They were invitations.
And I had already accepted.
