I’m thirty-three years old, my hairline has been retreating since my late twenties, and my self-confidence went with it.
That’s the kind of thing you don’t put in a dating profile, but it leaks through anyway. You can smile in photos, angle the camera just right, write something witty about liking travel and cooking—but desperation has a smell. People sense it. They swipe left.
For a year straight, my nights followed the same pattern. Come home from work. Heat something frozen. Sit on the couch and swipe until my thumb ached. Tinder. Bumble. Hinge. Apps with names that sounded like they were trying too hard to be cute. Every notification raised my heart rate. Every silence hollowed me out again.
Occasionally I’d get a match. It would last two messages. Three if I was lucky. Then nothing. Ghosted by people who had already decided I wasn’t worth the energy of rejection.
I told myself I was fine. That dating wasn’t everything. That being alone wasn’t the same as being lonely.
That was a lie.
My sister, Mara, knew it was a lie too.
She called me one night while I was scrolling through an app I barely remembered downloading.
“Are you still doing the dating thing?” she asked carefully.
“Define ‘doing,’” I said.
She sighed. “Okay. I found something. It’s new. Some guy from work knows the developer. Super small user base. Supposedly it’s more… intentional.”
“That sounds like marketing nonsense.”
“Probably. But you’ve tried everything else.”
She texted me the link while we were still on the phone.
The app was called Still.
Just that. No heart icons. No winking slogans. Black background. White text. Minimalist to the point of being unsettling.
I downloaded it.
The setup was strange. No long bio. No prompts about favorite movies or love languages. Just photos, age, and a single question:
What are you looking for?
I typed: Someone who won’t disappear.
It felt stupidly honest.
The profiles loaded slowly, like the app was thinking before showing me each person. No endless deck. One profile at a time. Each photo was sharp, unfiltered, oddly intimate. People staring directly into the camera. No duck faces. No group shots.
And the thing was—these people were beautiful. Not influencer beautiful. Real beautiful. The kind of beauty that makes you uncomfortable because it feels like they’re looking back at you.
I swiped right more than I ever had before.
That’s when Mara called back.
“Delete it,” she said. No greeting. No small talk.
“What?”
“That app. Delete it. Now.”
I sat up. “What are you talking about?”
“There’s something wrong with it,” she said. “I recognized someone. A woman from my old neighborhood.”
“So?”
“So she died. Five years ago.”
I laughed, because it was easier than thinking. “Okay. So someone stole her photos.”
“No,” Mara said. “I checked. Her obituary photo is the same one. Same clothes. Same background.”
My thumb hovered over the screen.
“Mara,” I said, “you’re spiraling.”
“I kept checking,” she said. “I looked up more profiles. Public records. News articles. Death notices.”
My stomach tightened.
“And?” I asked.
“And most of them are dead.”
The room felt colder.
I thought of a face I’d seen earlier. A girl with dark curls and a crooked smile.
“No,” I said quietly.
“Mara—”
“I saw Hannah,” I interrupted.
She went silent.
Hannah had been my friend since college. Not a girlfriend. Not even close. Just someone who sat next to me in class and laughed at my dumb jokes. She died in a highway accident three years ago. Wrong place. Wrong time.
“I thought I imagined it,” I said. “Or someone who looked like her.”
“You didn’t,” Mara said. “Delete it, okay? Please.”
I promised her I would.
I didn’t.
I told myself curiosity wasn’t the same as belief. That this was some elaborate hoax. Some sick art project.
That’s when my phone buzzed.
You have a new match.
My heart stuttered.
The name at the top of the screen made my fingers go numb.
Hannah
The photo was her. No doubt. The same one from her old social media. The one she’d joked made her look like she knew a secret.
A message appeared.
Hey, Ned.
Only three people had ever called me that. My dad. Mara. Hannah.
I stared at the screen until my eyes burned.
I typed, deleted, typed again.
This isn’t funny.
The reply came instantly.
I know. I’m sorry.
My hands were shaking now.
Who is this?
The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
I don’t have a lot of time.
My throat felt tight.
If this is some joke—
It’s not. And I wish you hadn’t found me this way.
I thought of Mara’s voice. Tight with fear. Urgent.
I thought of how lonely I’d been.
You’re dead, I typed.
There was a long pause.
Yes.
The word sat there, plain and final.
Then how are you texting me?
Another pause.
Because you were looking.
The chat window dimmed slightly, like the app was sinking deeper into itself.
Looking for what?
For someone who wouldn’t disappear.
My chest ached.
Why you?
The answer took longer this time.
Because you remember me. Because you still think about me. Because you’re alone.
That last word hit harder than anything else.
I didn’t sleep that night.
Over the next week, Hannah and I talked every evening. Not about her death. Not at first. About stupid things. About the classes we’d taken. About the coffee shop she used to love. About how she’d always meant to cut her hair shorter but never did.
She never answered when I asked where she was.
She never asked where I was.
She did ask one thing.
Are you happy?
I lied.
Mara called again. I didn’t answer.
The app started sending notifications even when I wasn’t using it.
Hannah is thinking about you.
You don’t have to be alone.
One night, she said:
I can show you.
Show me what?
Where I am.
My heart pounded.
How?
Just come over.
The address appeared.
It was my apartment.
I laughed out loud, sharp and brittle.
Very funny.
I’m already there.
The lights flickered.
I stood slowly, every instinct screaming at me to run.
Where?
Behind you.
I turned.
The apartment was empty.
Then my phone vibrated one last time.
You always were looking for something permanent.
The screen went black.
The mirror across the room caught my reflection.
For a moment, it smiled back at me.
Then it raised its hand.
I didn’t.
Behind me, something breathed.
And finally—truly—I wasn’t alone anymore.
