I didn’t download the app for romance.
That’s the first lie people expect you to tell, so I’m saying it plainly. I downloaded it because Mara said I should. Mara always said things like that—you should, you’d like this, trust me. She had a way of making suggestions feel like inevitabilities.
We were sitting on the floor of her apartment when she brought it up, backs against the couch, the windows cracked to let in the late-summer heat. She was scrolling on her phone, legs folded neatly, hair still damp from a shower. I was picking at a loose thread on the carpet, trying not to think about how long it had been since I’d let anyone touch me.
“You’re lonely,” she said without looking up.
“I’m not,” I said, too quickly.
She smiled at her screen. “You are. And that’s fine. Everybody gets hungry.”
That was Mara’s favorite metaphor. Hunger. She applied it to everything—attention, comfort, validation. Love, sometimes. She claimed it made things simpler. If you were hungry, you ate. If you were full, you stopped. No moral weight. No guilt.
She held up her phone. “Here. This one’s decent. No bios about ‘adventures’ or dead fish.”
I leaned closer. The app’s interface was clean, almost aggressively friendly. Bright colors. Rounded edges. Photos sliding past with a flick of my thumb.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I said.
“You don’t have to,” she replied, finally turning to look at me. Her eyes were sharp and dark, always observant, like she was watching something unfold even when nothing seemed to be happening. “I’ll help.”
We built the profile together. She insisted on the photos—ones she’d taken of me without my noticing. Me reading by the window. Me laughing at something off-camera. Me asleep on the couch, mouth open, hair a mess.
“Those are creepy,” I said.
“They’re honest,” she countered. “People like honest.”
When it was done, the app chimed softly. Profile complete.
I felt a flutter in my chest, a nervous spark. “Now what?”
“Now,” Mara said, settling back against the couch, “you choose.”
I swiped left more than right. Too polished. Too aggressive. Too empty. Then I stopped on a profile that felt… gentle. A man named Jonah. Thirty-two. Software support. Liked old movies and late-night food trucks. His smile was crooked, unguarded.
“He seems nice,” I said.
Mara leaned over my shoulder. “He’ll do.”
I swiped right.
The match came almost instantly. My phone buzzed, loud in the quiet room. I laughed, startled.
“Oh my god,” I said. “What do I say?”
“Anything,” Mara replied. “That’s the trick. Say anything.”
So I did. Small talk. Jokes. Questions. Jonah was easy to talk to, the kind of person who responded quickly but didn’t feel desperate. When he suggested meeting up, my stomach flipped.
“Invite him here,” Mara said.
“Here?” I hesitated. “Isn’t that—fast?”
She shrugged. “You live close. It’s late. He suggested takeout. Efficient.”
I thought of the empty fridge. The echoing quiet of my place most nights. Mara’s apartment felt warmer than mine, safer somehow. Like a shared space where nothing bad could happen.
“Okay,” I said, surprising myself. “Okay.”
Jonah arrived just after nine. I watched him through the peephole, heart hammering. He stood awkwardly in the hallway, shifting his weight, holding a paper bag that smelled faintly of garlic and grease.
When I opened the door, his smile widened—and then faltered slightly as he noticed Mara behind me.
“Oh,” he said. “Hi.”
“Hey,” Mara said brightly. “Come in. You must be starving.”
He laughed, uncertain, and stepped inside.
The apartment felt smaller with him in it. More fragile. We sat on the couch, knees brushing. Jonah handed over the food, apologizing for the wait, the traffic, the sauce he wasn’t sure I liked.
“It’s perfect,” I said, meaning it more than I expected.
Mara watched us with quiet amusement, perched on the armchair like a cat. She barely ate, just picked at a fry now and then, eyes flicking between us.
“So,” Jonah said after a while, glancing at her. “Are you… roommates?”
“Something like that,” Mara said.
I felt my face warm. “We—uh—live together.”
Jonah nodded slowly. “Cool. That’s cool.”
There was a pause. Not awkward exactly. Expectant.
Mara stood. “I’ll give you two some space,” she said. “Bedroom’s this way.”
Jonah’s eyebrows shot up. He looked at me, searching my face for confirmation. I swallowed and nodded.
“Yeah,” I said. “If that’s okay.”
“It’s more than okay,” he said, a grin spreading across his face.
The bedroom light was low, amber and soft. My pulse roared in my ears. Jonah reached for me, tentative at first, then more confident when I didn’t pull away. His hands were warm. Real.
For a moment, I forgot everything else.
Then Mara stepped inside and closed the door.
Jonah startled. “Oh—”
“Relax,” she said. “You’re safe.”
The word safe landed strangely in the room, heavy and final.
I don’t remember deciding to move. One moment I was standing there, trembling with adrenaline and nerves, and the next my hand was pressed flat against Jonah’s chest. I felt his heart thudding beneath my palm, fast and strong.
Mara’s eyes gleamed. “Go on,” she whispered. “You’re ready.”
I don’t know how to describe what happened next without lying. There was no pain on my end. No hesitation. Just a sudden, horrifying ease. My fingers slid between ribs as if they weren’t there at all, as if the body was only a suggestion.
Jonah’s mouth opened. No sound came out.
When I pulled my hand back, his heart came with it—slick, pulsing, impossibly alive. Blood sprayed the wall in an arc that felt almost artistic.
He collapsed onto the bed, eyes glassy, breath gone.
I screamed.
Mara laughed.
It was a rich, delighted sound, like she’d been holding it in all night. She stepped forward, cupping my face with bloody hands.
“There you are,” she said. “I was wondering when you’d finally stop pretending.”
I don’t remember eating, but I remember the taste. Copper and salt and something sweeter underneath. Hunger roaring up from a place I didn’t know I had.
We didn’t waste anything. Mara was meticulous, efficient. She always was. By the time the sky began to lighten outside, the room was clean again. Too clean.
We lay in bed afterward, my head on her shoulder. I felt full in a way I never had before. Sated. Quiet.
“You did so well,” she murmured, stroking my hair. “First time’s always the hardest.”
“What am I?” I asked, voice small.
She smiled down at me. “Honest.”
I slept without dreaming.
In the weeks that followed, it got easier. The app made it easy. Too easy. People were so willing to come over, to trust, to believe the version of themselves they wanted to be for a stranger.
Mara guided me at first, then less and less. She liked watching me learn.
“See?” she said one night as I swiped through new matches. “I told you. They come right to you.”
Sometimes, late at night, when the apartment was quiet and my stomach was pleasantly heavy, I’d wonder how long Mara had been hungry before she found me.
Then the app would buzz.
And I’d swipe right.
