No Boats Involved (Raya Harry)
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After a brutal breakup, your influencer best friend hands you a Raya invite code as a distraction, and somehow you end up matching with the one person you never expected to see on a dating app.
word count: 8.5k
You are sitting on Camille’s kitchen counter while she rearranges a cluster of candles on her dining table, muttering to herself about lighting.
“Don’t move,” she says, angling her phone toward the window. “You’re accidentally in frame and it looks candid.”
“I refuse to be background texture in your oat milk sponsorship.”
“It’s not sponsored. It’s aspirational.”
You swing your legs idly and watch her fuss with the tripod. Camille has always been like this. Confident in a way that looks effortless but is actually engineered. She calls her job lifestyle content, but it’s really just her life filtered through better angles and cleaner fonts. A few years ago a video of her ranking iced coffees in the city blew up, and she never quite stepped out of the spotlight after that. Now brands send her candles and oversized blazers and she goes to events she claims she hates and somehow leaves with three new contacts and a story.
She stops recording and glances at you. “You look sad.”
“I am not sad.”
“You are aggressively neutral. Which is worse.”
You pull at the sleeve of your sweater. “It’s been three weeks.”
“Three weeks since the breakup,” she says, hopping onto the counter across from you. “And you are still defending a man who thought oat milk was a personality.”
You huff out a small laugh despite yourself. “He was not that bad.”
“He was that boring.”
The thing about Camille is that she could have said I told you so months ago. She saw the cracks before you did. Instead she let you figure it out, and now she is careful with you, even when she’s teasing.
“You need a distraction,” she says, softer now.
“I have work.”
“You write about city council meetings.”
“I like writing about city council meetings.”
“I know you do,” she says quickly. “I’m not diminishing your civic passion. I’m saying you deserve something that makes your stomach flip in a good way.”
You give her a look. “That sounds dangerous.”
She grins and reaches for her phone. “It is.”
You already know that expression. It’s the one she gets right before she convinces you to do something you swore you wouldn’t.
“Camille.”
“Raya.”
You laugh immediately. “Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
“Because that is for models and DJs and men who own boats. I am a writer for an online newspaper. I am painfully normal.”
She slides off the counter and comes to stand in front of you, arms crossed. “First of all, you are not painfully normal. You are emotionally literate and hot. That’s a rare combination. Second, I have an invite code.”
“How do you just have an invite code?”
She shrugs. “It circulates.”
“That is not an answer.”
“One of the stylists I worked with last month had extras. Influencer privilege. It resets every so often.”
You stare at her. “Your life sounds fake.”
“And yet here I am, using it for good.”
She types something quickly and your phone buzzes in your hand.
“Camille.”
“Just download it. You don’t have to use it. Think of it as exposure therapy.”
“I do not need exposure therapy. I need to stop wanting to text my ex.”
“Exactly,” she says, like you just proved her point. “This is you moving forward without actually moving forward. Low stakes. No expectations.”
You look down at the string of letters and numbers on your screen. A code. A tiny door you did not ask for.
“You’re going to make fun of every man on there with me, aren’t you.”
“Respectfully,” she says. “Yes.”
You slide off the counter and open the app store before you can overthink it. Camille watches like she’s overseeing a soft launch.
When the app opens and asks for photos, you hesitate.
“Use the one from Emma’s birthday,” she says immediately.
“I look shiny.”
“You look dewy. Big difference.”
You scroll anyway, choosing three that feel honest. You laughing mid sentence. You walking down a street. You at your desk with coffee and a stack of papers.
It asks for your job.
You type: Writer, online newspaper. You pause, then add: Painfully normal.
Camille leans over your shoulder and smiles. “That’s charming.”
“It’s true.”
“It’s self aware. People love self aware.”
“I do not want people loving anything. I want them mildly intrigued at best.”
She nudges you. “You say that now.”
You finish setting it up. The profile exists. A version of you sitting in a digital room full of strangers.
“Now what,” you ask.
“Now nothing,” she says. “Close it. Let it breathe. You don’t have to dive in tonight.”
You study her for a second. “You’re being surprisingly chill about this.”
She softens. “I’m not trying to throw you into chaos. I just don’t want you shrinking.”
The words land heavier than the joke did.
You swallow and nod once. “Okay.”
That night, the app sits on your home screen. Small. Unassuming. You open it once, just to look. Profiles slide past. People with glossy photos and inside jokes in their bios. It feels like a room where everyone already knows each other.
You close it. You are not ready. The next day you don’t open it at all. Or the day after that. But you don’t delete it either. You don’t open the app again.
Not when you’re bored on the train. Not when you’re half tempted to text your ex and need a distraction. It just sits there, tucked between your news app and your notes, quietly existing.
A week passes.
Then Camille texts: Girls night. Emergency vibes. Bring pajamas.
You show up at her apartment with a tote bag and low expectations. She’s already in matching satin shorts she claims were gifted but absolutely bought herself. There’s a charcuterie board that looks suspiciously sponsored but isn’t, and a bottle of wine breathing on the counter.
“You look alive,” she says approvingly as you kick off your shoes.
“I showered.”
“Growth.”
You roll your eyes and accept the glass she hands you. The apartment smells like whatever expensive candle she’s currently pretending not to be emotionally attached to. Music plays softly in the background. It feels easy.
You talk about work first. You tell her about a piece you’re drafting and how your editor keeps asking for more bite. She tells you about a brand dinner where a micro celebrity tried to explain crypto to her for twenty minutes.
By the second glass of wine, you feel looser. Not reckless. Just less tight in your chest.
Camille studies you from across the couch. “Did you delete it?”
You know exactly what she means.
“No.”
Her eyes light up. “So you kept it.”
“That does not mean anything.”
“It means you’re curious.”
“It means I forgot.”
She gives you a look that says she does not believe you for a second.
“Open it.”
“Camille.”
“Open it. We’re in a safe environment. I will curate.”
“You are the least neutral curator alive.”
“Correct.”
You hesitate, then reach for your phone. The app opens faster than you expect, like it’s been waiting.
Profiles start sliding past. A director in Berlin. A DJ in Miami. A guy whose bio is just a single black square emoji.
Camille narrates like it’s a sport.
“Absolutely not.”
“He looks like he says ‘let’s circle back.’”
“Oh he owns a boat. You were right about the boats.”
You laugh more than you have in days. It feels harmless. Distant. These are just faces on a screen.
You swipe left. Left. Left. Then you pause.
Camille notices immediately. “What.”
“Nothing.”
“Show me.”
You turn the phone toward her.
The first photo is candid. Slightly blurry. Sunglasses. A half smile that feels familiar in a way your brain takes a second to process. The second is him on what looks like a boat, wind pushing his hair back. The third is simple. Black shirt. Direct eye contact with the camera.
There’s no over the top bio. Just his name. Harry. A few understated details. A song playing in the background of the profile that you recognize immediately.
Your stomach drops in a way that has nothing to do with wine.
Camille blinks. Then blinks again. “Is that…”
“Yes.”
She grabs your wrist. “Oh my god.”
“It’s fake.”
“It does not look fake.”
“It’s absolutely fake.”
The photos don’t look like press shots. They look like someone handed a friend a phone. The prompts are understated. Almost boring. Which somehow makes it worse.
Camille leans closer to the screen. “Location?”
You glance at the top. It lists New York, but there’s a small note about frequent travel.
Your heart is beating faster now, and you hate that it is.
“This is stupid,” you say, more to yourself than to her.
“Swipe right.”
“No.”
“Why not.”
“Because what if it matches.”
“That is the point of the app.”
“Camille.”
She softens, just slightly. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. But if you’re going to tell this story one day, you’re going to wish you swiped right.”
You stare at the screen. At the small, digital version of a man you have only ever seen on stages and magazine covers. It feels ridiculous. Unreal. He is just another profile. Just another person in a room full of people.
You swallow.
“This is insane.”
“I know,” she whispers, grinning.
You swipe right.
The screen barely has time to settle before it flashes.
It’s a match.
You and Camille freeze at the exact same time, staring at the glowing words like they might rearrange themselves into something more reasonable.
“No,” you say immediately.
Camille grabs your arm. “No way.”
The phone is still in your hand. Still warm. Still real.
You both scream. It’s not cute. It’s not controlled. It’s loud and sharp and slightly panicked. Camille knocks over her wine glass in the process and you fling the phone onto the couch like it just burned you.
“Oh my god,” she says, half laughing, half hyperventilating.
“This is not funny,” you say, backing away from the couch like the phone might start speaking.
“You matched with him.”
“It’s fake.”
“It literally says matched.”
“That does not mean anything. People hack things.”
She lunges for the phone. You lunge too. You both miss and it slides off the couch and lands face down on the rug.
You stare at it.
“Pick it up,” she whispers.
“You pick it up.”
“It’s your life.”
“It was your code.”
She laughs in this nervous, stressed out way that makes everything feel ten times more unhinged. “Okay. Okay. Breathe. This is fine. You’re fine.”
“I am not fine.”
She scoops up the phone and flips it over. Still there. His name at the top of the screen. The little notification bubble waiting.
“You have to message him,” she says.
You actually yell. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No. Absolutely not. I am not messaging him.”
“You cannot match with Harry Styles and then just sit there.”
“I can and I will.”
She shoves the phone toward you. “Say hi.”
“I don’t know how to say hi to that.”
“You say hi like you would to anyone else.”
“That is objectively untrue.”
You grab the phone from her and clutch it to your chest like you’re protecting it from her.
“What if it’s not him,” you say quickly. “What if it’s someone pretending to be him and I say something normal and they screenshot it and it’s humiliating.”
Camille squints at the profile again. “The photos look real. The prompts look real. It’s understated in a way that feels real.”
“That is not comforting.”
She tilts her head. “Do you want him to message first?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t control that.”
You glance down at the screen like it might betray you at any second. “This was supposed to be funny.”
“It is funny.”
“It is not funny. It’s deeply stressful.”
She grins despite herself. “You are glowing right now.”
“I am panicking.”
“Same,” she says brightly.
Your thumb hovers over the message bar. Blank. Waiting.
“Okay,” Camille says, suddenly serious. “If you don’t message him, you’re going to think about it all week. If you do message him, worst case scenario he doesn’t respond and we move on.”
“And best case.”
She smiles slowly. “We get a story.”
You look at the phone. At his name. At the tiny space where words are supposed to go.
You feel ridiculous. You feel curious. You feel a small flicker of something that does not feel like your ex.
“I hate you,” you tell her.
“I know,” she says sweetly.
Your thumb taps the keyboard. Then you panic and throw the phone back onto the couch again.
“No. I can’t.”
Camille bursts out laughing and dives for it before you can. “You are impossible.”
“Do not send anything,” you warn, scrambling after her.
“I won’t. I promise. I’m just looking.”
You both collapse onto the couch, shoulders pressed together, staring at the screen like it’s a live wire.
The message bar is still empty. Waiting. You stare at the blinking cursor like it’s personally judging you.
Camille is practically vibrating next to you.
“Okay,” she says carefully, like she’s negotiating with a wild animal. “Give me the phone.”
“No.”
“You are spiraling.”
“I am thinking.”
“You have been thinking for ten full minutes.”
You glance at the clock. She’s right. It has been ten full minutes of you typing something, deleting it, typing something else, deleting that too.
“What if I say something weird,” you say.
“You won’t.”
“What if I black out and accidentally propose.”
She snorts. “Then at least it would be memorable.”
You press your lips together and look back down at his name. It still feels surreal. Too big for the tiny screen.
“Okay,” you say slowly. “You can send it.”
Her eyes widen. “Really.”
“Yes. But nothing embarrassing. Nothing flirty. Nothing that sounds like I’ve ever listened to music in my life.”
She grabs the phone gently, like it might shatter. “Relax.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“You shouldn’t.”
You watch her thumbs hover over the keyboard. Your heart is pounding again, which is ridiculous. This is a dating app. People message each other every day. This is normal.
Painfully normal, you remind yourself.
“Just say hi,” you whisper.
“That’s boring.”
“Boring is safe.”
She thinks for a second, then starts typing. You crane your neck to see.
Hi. I was told this app was for models and DJs and men who own boats, so I’m slightly confused.
You stare at it.
“That’s actually good,” you admit quietly.
“I know.”
“It sounds like me.”
“Because I am a genius.”
She looks at you one more time. “Last chance.”
You take a breath. The worst that happens is nothing. The worst that happens is it is him and he doesn’t respond. The worst that happens is you wake up tomorrow and your life is exactly the same as it was this morning.
“Send it,” you say.
She taps the screen. The message flies off into the void. You both immediately scream again and she drops the phone onto your lap this time.
“It’s done,” she says, laughing in that stressed out way that makes everything feel unreal. “You did it.”
“I didn’t do it. You did it.”
“You approved it.”
You stare at the chat. The message sits there, small and harmless looking. Sent. Now you wait.
Camille leans her head against your shoulder. “See. That wasn’t so bad.”
You swallow. “It was terrible.”
She smiles. “Admit it. You’re curious.”
You are.
There isn’t an immediate response. Of course there isn’t.
You and Camille stare at the screen for a full minute like something dramatic is supposed to happen. It doesn’t. The chat just sits there with your message hanging in polite, digital silence.
Camille eventually clears her throat. “Well. He’s busy.”
“Right,” you say quickly. “He’s… him.”
“He could be in a studio. Or asleep. Or on a boat.”
“Stop mentioning boats.”
She laughs, but after another minute of nothing, the intensity fizzles. The wine settles. The night moves on. You order takeout. You watch something mindless. You do not check the app again before you fall asleep on her couch.
The next morning, you half expect a notification. There isn’t one. And weirdly, that makes it easier.
Life resumes.
You go to work. You draft headlines. You sit in meetings where someone says the phrase content vertical without irony. The Raya message drifts to the back of your mind, filed somewhere between embarrassing and funny.
Every few days, Camille checks in.
“Any movement?”
“No.”
“Are you checking?”
“Not obsessively.”
“That is not what I asked.”
You roll your eyes at her texts and keep walking down the street, coffee in hand. It becomes a bit. A running joke. The time you matched with Harry Styles and nothing happened.
You stop opening the app altogether. You don’t want to see the unchanged chat. It feels cleaner to leave it unopened than to confirm the silence.
A week passes. Then another.
The sharpness of it dulls. You stop imagining what you would say if he responded. You stop replaying the message in your head. It becomes a story you’ll tell someday. Remember when.
One evening, you’re walking up the stairs to your apartment, juggling your tote bag and your keys. It’s been a long day. You stayed late finishing a piece and your brain feels like static. All you want is a shower and something easy to eat.
Your phone buzzes in your hand.
You don’t even look at the screen at first. You assume it’s Camille. She tends to text around this time, usually something chaotic like I have a new theory about men.
You push your door open with your shoulder and glance down casually.
It’s not iMessage blue.
It’s the Raya icon.
Your heart drops so fast you actually miss the doorway and bump your hip against the frame.
You stare at the notification. Harry sent you a message.
For a second, you just stand there in your dim apartment hallway, door half open behind you, keys still in your hand.
You genuinely consider not opening it. Preserving the possibility instead of facing whatever is actually there.
Your phone buzzes again. Another message.Your throat goes dry.
You step inside slowly and close the door with your foot, like you’re trying not to disturb something fragile. The apartment is quiet. The only sound is your own breathing, suddenly louder than it should be.
You unlock your phone.
Your thumb hovers over the app.
You think, absurdly, I thought this was Camille.
It isn’t.
It’s him.
You open it before you can talk yourself out of it.
The chat loads.
Your message is still there at the top, slightly smug now that it has company.
Below it:
I don’t own a boat. Feels important to clarify.
You stare at it.
Then the second message.
But I am slightly offended I got lumped in with DJs.
You let out a sound that is half laugh, half something close to hysteria.
It’s him. It has to be him. The tone is dry. Understated. Not trying too hard. Not grand.
You drop your bag on the floor without meaning to.
Your brain immediately starts overanalyzing. How long ago did he send this. You check.
Three minutes.
Three.
He is currently on the app.
Your heart begins beating in a way that feels wildly disproportionate to a dating app notification.
You pace once across your living room. Then back.
You consider calling Camille. You absolutely cannot call Camille. She will scream and make this worse.
You look back at the messages.
There are no emojis. No exclamation points. Just clean, simple sentences.
You sit down on the edge of your couch and type.
I appreciate the clarification.
It feels neutral. Slightly amused. Safe.
You hesitate for only a second this time before hitting send.
The message delivers.
You immediately lock your phone and toss it onto the couch like distance will regulate your nervous system.
It buzzes.
You freeze.
You turn slowly and pick it up.
That was faster than I expected. I thought you might have forgotten about this place.
Your stomach flips.
You type back before you can overthink it.
I did. Briefly.
Three dots appear almost instantly.
Fair. I disappear for weeks at a time. Occupational hazard.
You swallow. Occupational hazard. He’s referencing it without naming it. Casual.
You lean back into your couch now, letting yourself settle into it.
Hazard implies danger. Should I be concerned.
The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.
Only if you’re afraid of slightly inconsistent texting habits.
You actually smile.
That feels honest. Not polished. Not trying to charm.
You decide to push, just slightly.
And what exactly is the occupation that causes that.
You stare at the screen after sending it. It’s a normal question. Completely normal.
The three dots take longer this time.
Then:
I sing sometimes.
You laugh out loud in your empty apartment.
Sometimes.
You rest your head back against the couch and type:
Ah. Casual.
A pause.
Then:
And you’re painfully normal, if I remember correctly.
Your cheeks warm.
Writer. Online newspaper. I cover city council meetings sometimes. No boats involved.
Three dots.
That sounds more interesting than boats.
You blink at the screen.
You weren’t expecting that.
Before you can respond, another message appears.
How did you end up on this app if you’re so painfully normal.
There’s no judgment in it. It reads curious. Respectful.
You hesitate for a second, then decide honesty is easier than crafting something cool.
A friend passed along an invite code. She said it would be character building.
You add, after a beat:
I haven’t decided if she was right.
The typing bubble appears again.
I respect a friend with connections. Sounds efficient.
You smile at that.
Your apartment feels different now. Lighter somehow. Charged in a quiet way.
It stays small. Contained. Two people in a digital room, testing the edges.
And for the first time in weeks, your chest feels full of something that isn’t grief.
It’s curiosity.
And it feels dangerously close to excitement.
You stare at the screen for a second longer than necessary, letting the fact that this is happening settle somewhere in your chest.
You decide to keep it light.
She would be thrilled to hear that. She considers herself very well connected.
The typing bubble appears almost immediately.
Sounds intimidating. Should I be worried about her vetting process.
You smile.
She’d absolutely run a background check if she could.
That feels fair.
The ease of it surprises you. There’s no heavy flirting. No performance. Just conversation.
Another message appears.
So. Writer for an online newspaper.
You shift on the couch, tucking one leg under you.
Yes. Very glamorous.
What do you write about.
You consider giving him the short version. Instead, you answer properly.
Local things. City council meetings when they matter. Housing issues. Small business stories. Restaurant openings. The kind of pieces people actually click on at eight in the morning while they’re drinking coffee.
You pause, then add:
Sometimes it’s more human. I interviewed a man last month who’s been feeding the same stray cat outside a laundromat for nine years. That one did surprisingly well.
The typing bubble appears quickly.
That sounds more interesting than most things I’ve read today.
You blink at the screen.
It’s not glamorous. But it’s real.
A moment passes.
Real is better.
You feel that one land somewhere you weren’t expecting.
Then:
What got you into it.
It isn’t surface level. He keeps asking follow ups like he actually wants to know.
You think about it before answering.
I like paying attention to things that would get ignored otherwise. Small decisions. Small people. The stuff that doesn’t trend but still matters.
You hover over the screen, suddenly aware you might be revealing more than you planned to.
You send it anyway.
The typing bubble lingers.
That doesn’t sound painfully normal to me.
Your cheeks warm.
You’ve exchanged maybe fifteen messages with me. That’s not a thorough character study.
I work well with limited data.
You laugh under your breath.
You decide to pivot.
And you. You “sing sometimes.” Is that what you put on tax forms.
A beat.
Depends who’s asking.
I’m asking.
There’s a slightly longer pause this time.
I travel a lot. I write songs. I spend more time in airports than I’d like.
It’s understated. No résumé. No ego.
Then another message appears.
I’ve been spending a lot of time in Italy lately. I’m there now.
You sit up a little straighter.
Oh.
Work. I tend to stay longer than planned.
You picture it without meaning to. Warmer air. Different language. A life that moves at a different speed.
That sounds better than New York in February.
It’s quieter. Less arguing outside the window.
You smile.
On impulse, you switch languages.
Quindi ora sei ufficialmente italiano? (So are you officially Italian now?)
You immediately wonder if that was too much.
The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.
Capisco un po’. Not enough to get in trouble. (I understand a little.)
Your eyebrows lift.
That’s suspiciously vague.
It’s strategic.
You laugh.
How much is “un po’.” (“A little.”)
A beat.
Enough to order dinner. Not enough to win an argument.
You shake your head, smiling into your phone, alone in your apartment but suddenly not feeling it quite as much.
You stare at the last message for a while.
Enough to order dinner. Not enough to win an argument.
You type a response. Delete it. Type another. Delete that too.
You don’t want to overextend it. You don’t want to drag the conversation into the early morning just because you can. He said it was late there. You can feel the natural pause settling in.
So you send one last thing.
That feels like the correct level of fluency.
The message delivers.
You lock your phone before he can respond.
Not in a dramatic way. Just deliberately. You don’t want to sit there watching the typing bubble. You don’t want to turn this into something frantic.
You set your phone on the coffee table and lean back against the couch, staring at the ceiling.
Your apartment is quiet again.
It feels different though. Charged. Like the air shifted a few degrees.
You tell yourself you’re being normal. You had a conversation. That’s it. People have conversations every day.
Still.
After a minute, you reach for your phone again.
You don’t open the chat.
You open his profile.
The first photo loads. Slightly blurry. Sunglasses pushed up into his hair. A half smile that looks unguarded. The kind of picture that feels like it was taken by someone standing too close, not a press photographer.
You swipe.
The boat photo. Wind in his hair. Sun on his face. He looks relaxed in a way that feels almost private.
You swipe again.
The black shirt. Direct eye contact with the camera. No exaggerated expression. Just him.
You exhale slowly.
He’s beautiful.
Not in a distant, untouchable way. In a human way. In a way that feels almost unfair when it’s paired with the quiet, thoughtful messages you just read.
You zoom in slightly before you can stop yourself, studying details you would absolutely make fun of Camille for noticing. The curve of his mouth. The line of his jaw. The softness in his eyes that doesn’t fully translate on stage but shows up here.
Your stomach flips again.
You close the app.
Open it again.
Just to look one more time.
You’re not desperate. You’re curious. There’s a difference, you tell yourself.
You set your phone down for good this time and stand up, pacing once across your living room.
This is ridiculous, you think.
You give it a few days.
Not on purpose at first. Just life moving the way it does. Work piles up. Your editor sends back notes. You spend an entire afternoon interviewing a bakery owner who insists on telling you her full life story before answering a single question.
You do not open the app.
You think about it, though.
In line for coffee. On the train. When your phone buzzes and your heart does something irrational before you check the notification and it’s just a news alert.
You tell yourself this is healthy. Measured. You are not spiraling. You are not glued to a screen waiting for a typing bubble.
You are taking it slow.
By day three, you’ve convinced yourself that leaving space makes you mysterious.
By day four, you realize you are just nervous.
Camille texts you on Thursday night.
Are you alive.
You stare at the message.
Yes.
That’s it? she replies. Suspicious.
You hesitate, then type:
He messaged.
There are three dots immediately.
WHAT.
You call her before she can send anything else because you know she will escalate.
She answers on the first ring.
“You cannot just text ‘he messaged’ and leave it there,” she says, already breathless.
“It was normal,” you say quickly. “Very normal. Calm. Human.”
“Define human.”
“We talked about work. Italy came up.”
“Italy,” she repeats, like it’s a plot twist in a show she’s invested in.
“He’s there.”
“I hate that.”
“I know.”
She goes quiet for a second. “So what’s the problem.”
“There isn’t one.”
“Then why do you sound like there is.”
You sit on the edge of your bed, twisting the hem of your shirt around your fingers.
“I just… I don’t want to ruin it.”
“Ruin what.”
“I don’t know. The tone. The ease.”
Camille softens.
“You’re allowed to enjoy something without pre ruining it.”
“I’m not pre ruining it.”
“You’re rationing it,” she says gently.
You look at the floor.
She’s not wrong.
“I haven’t opened the app in a few days,” you admit.
“On purpose?”
“Kind of.”
“Why.”
You search for the right words.
“Because if I answer too fast, it feels like I care too much. And if I answer too slow, it feels like I’m playing a game. I don’t want to play a game.”
Camille exhales.
“You are overthinking this.”
“I know.”
“He is a man. On a dating app. You are a woman. On a dating app. You are allowed to respond when you want to respond.”
“It’s different.”
“Because he’s famous.”
You don’t answer.
She continues, softer now.
“Is he talking to you like he’s famous.”
“No.”
“Is he acting like you should be impressed.”
“No.”
“Then stop assigning weight to it.”
You lean back onto your bed and stare at the ceiling.
“I’ve just been taking it slow,” you say finally.
“Slow is fine,” she replies. “Slow is sexy. Slow is mysterious. Slow is emotionally regulated. But slow is not avoidance.”
You laugh quietly.
“Which one am I.”
“A little of both,” she says.
You glance at your phone on your nightstand.
It hasn’t buzzed.
But you know the conversation is still there. Waiting. Not in a demanding way. Just existing.
You shift on your bed, tucking the phone tighter between your shoulder and your ear so you can free up one hand.
“Don’t,” Camille says immediately.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You don’t have to. I can hear it.”
You roll your eyes even though she can’t see you. “I’m just looking.”
“You are absolutely about to open the app.”
You don’t deny it this time. You pull the phone away from your ear for a second, switch to speaker, and open Raya.
The screen loads.
Your thumb hesitates before you tap the chat.
Nothing new.
The last message is still there. Calm. Unmoved. No typing bubble. No fresh notification.
You stare at it longer than you should.
“Well?” Camille asks through the speaker.
“Nothing.”
There’s a small pause.
“That’s okay,” you add quickly. “He’s busy.”
Camille hums in a way that says she’s watching you spiral from miles away.
“Yeah,” she says. “He probably is.”
You exit the chat but don’t close the app right away. You linger on his profile picture at the top of the screen like it might offer some kind of reassurance.
“He said he disappears for weeks sometimes,” you say, trying to sound unaffected. “Occupational hazard.”
“You remember the exact phrasing,” she points out.
“Stop.”
You finally lock your phone and set it on your nightstand.
“I don’t want to be the girl who waits around,” you admit.
“You checked once,” she says calmly. “While actively talking to me.”
“That still counts.”
“It counts as being human.”
You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling.
“It’s fine,” you say again, softer this time. “He’s in Italy. It’s late there. He probably has a life.”
Camille laughs gently. “I hope so.”
You smile despite yourself.
“It was one conversation,” you continue. “A good one. But still.”
“And if that’s all it is, that’s still nice,” she says.
The week stretches longer than you expect.
Not in a dramatic way. Just quietly.
You stop checking every day. Then you stop checking at all. Work fills the space. You finish the bakery piece. You sit through a zoning meeting that runs forty minutes past what it should. You have dinner with Camille where neither of you says his name out loud.
It settles into something that almost feels finished.
You tell yourself that was nice. A good conversation. A small reminder that the world is bigger than one breakup.
You don’t delete the app.
You just let it exist.
It’s the following Tuesday when it happens.
You’re on the train, wedged between a woman reading a thriller and a man aggressively eating almonds out of a plastic bag. You’re half listening to a podcast, half staring at nothing.
Your phone buzzes in your hand.
You glance down automatically.
Raya.
Your stomach drops so fast you actually miss your stop announcement.
You stare at the notification without opening it.
Harry sent you a message.
The train keeps moving. Someone coughs. The world continues like this is not a seismic event.
You open it.
The chat loads.
The last message is still yours. Then below it, new.
Sorry. I disappeared.
Your throat tightens.
Another message comes through.
You were right about the argument thing. I lost one in Italian. Very humbling experience.
You let out a soft, startled laugh on the train, earning a brief look from the almond man.
It’s been a week.
A full week.
And yet the tone is exactly the same. Dry. Casual. Like no time has passed.
You type slowly, deliberately.
That does sound humbling.
You stare at it.
Then add:
I assumed you were busy.
The typing bubble appears almost immediately.
I was.
A pause.
Didn’t mean to vanish.
There’s something in that. Not defensive. Not overly apologetic. Just acknowledging.
You lean back against the train pole, trying to keep your expression neutral.
Occupational hazard, you write.
Three dots.
Exactly.
Another pause.
How’s New York.
You smile to yourself.
The fact that he remembers where you are.
Still cold. Still loud. No progress on the arguing neighbors.
The typing bubble.
I admire their commitment.
You laugh softly.
The train lurches and you grab the pole with your free hand, heart still beating faster than it needs
The train rattles forward and you stay where you are, letting two stops pass without even thinking about it.
Your phone buzzes again.
Did you write anything interesting this week.
You blink at the screen.
It’s such a simple question. And yet it doesn’t feel like filler.
You shift your weight and type carefully.
I wrote about a bakery that almost closed because of a rent increase. The neighborhood showed up for them. It worked.
There’s a pause.
Then:
That’s a good story.
You smile.
It felt like one.
Another message appears before you can overanalyze.
Do you ever want to write something bigger.
You hesitate.
Bigger how.
More glamorous. More visible. Less local.
You decide not to shrink.
Sometimes. But I like knowing exactly who I’m writing for. It feels less abstract.
The typing bubble lingers.
That makes sense.
Then:
Abstract gets lonely.
That lingers quietly.
You swallow.
The train announces the next stop. Yours. You step off, weaving through people while still holding your phone low against your chest.
Lonely in what way, you type as you climb the stairs to street level.
A longer pause this time.
You reach the sidewalk just as the reply comes through.
You play to a lot of people. It doesn’t mean they know you.
Your steps slow.
The city noise rushes around you. Taxis. Conversations. Wind cutting down the block.
You type carefully.
Do you want them to?
Three dots.
Disappear.
Reappear.
Not all of them.
There’s something steady in that answer. Not self pitying. Not dramatic.
You walk toward your apartment, pulse still elevated.
Selective, you write.
Almost instantly:
Exactly.
You smile.
There’s a rhythm now. A comfort.
Another message comes through.
What are you doing right now.
You glance around at the sidewalk, at the guy walking a dog in a tiny sweater.
Walking home. It’s disgustingly cold.
Italy would like to offer an alternative.
You laugh.
That feels like a marketing pitch.
It is.
You shake your head.
What are you doing?
A beat.
On a terrace. It’s late. I should be inside.
You can almost see it without trying. Warm air. Quiet. Different sky.
And yet, you type.
And yet I’m not.
There’s a softness to that.
You unlock your apartment door and step inside, shutting out the noise of the street.
Why not, you ask.
The typing bubble appears almost immediately this time.
Because I’m enjoying this conversation.
Your breath catches just slightly.
You sit down on the edge of your couch again, like your body instinctively knows you need to brace for impact.
You stare at the screen.
Then, slowly:
Me too.
There’s no immediate response.
Just the quiet hum of your apartment and the faint echo of traffic outside.
Then:
Good.
It continues like that.
Not intense. Not dramatic. Just steady.
A few messages in the morning. Sometimes late at night. Sometimes nothing for a full day, then a casual reappearance like no time has passed.
You fall into a rhythm without meaning to.
How’s the bakery.
Thriving. The power of carbs.
Impressive.
—————
How’s Italy.
Still warm. Still confusing me grammatically.
Have you won an argument yet.
Absolutely not.
—————
What are you writing today?
Housing piece. Slightly less charming than stray cats.
You make it sound charming.
—————
Some days it’s just:
Morning.
Morning.
Or:
You alive?
Barely.
It never tips into too much.
He disappears occasionally. Reappears with something small and thoughtful.
Heard a song today that felt like something you’d write about.
Saw a café that would make a good scene in an article.
You don’t ask for proof. You don’t demand consistency. You just let it exist.
Camille notices the shift before you say anything.
“You’re calmer,” she observes one night over dinner.
“Am I.”
“Yes. You’re not spiraling. You’re just… talking.”
That’s exactly it.
You’re just talking. Having fun even.
No declarations. No flirting that feels forced. Just pieces of each other exchanged in manageable amounts.
He tells you about long studio days without naming locations. You tell him about a zoning vote that got unexpectedly heated. He sends a photo once, unprompted. A blurry shot of a street at night. Warm lights. Stone buildings.
It’s quieter than New York, he writes.
You send back a photo of your street. Snow piled against the curb. A bodega glowing under fluorescent light.
It’s louder, you reply.
The time difference becomes familiar. You start to recognize when he’s likely awake. He learns your routine too.
You’re usually on the train around now, he texts one morning.
You pause at that.
Observant.
Limited data, he replies.
You smile.
It’s been three weeks.
Three weeks of casual conversation. Of checking the app without panic. Of feeling something build slowly instead of crashing all at once.
There are no grand gestures.
Just consistency.
It’s a random Wednesday afternoon when it shifts.
You’re at your desk, halfway through rewriting a paragraph for the third time, when your phone buzzes.
You glance down automatically.
Raya.
You open it without thinking now. No dramatic pause. No pacing.
I’m coming back to the States for a bit.
Your fingers still over the keyboard.
You stare at the message for a second.
Then:
Oh?
The typing bubble appears quickly.
Yeah. A few weeks.
Your heart picks up, just slightly.
Where.
A pause. Not long. Just long enough for you to become aware of your own breathing.
Los Angeles.
You lean back in your chair.
Of course.
Work? you type.
Promo. New album coming out. Record meetings. The usual chaos.
You smile at the understatement.
That sounds mildly busy.
It’ll be fine, he replies. Just loud.
You glance around your small office. Your muted computer screen. The hum of fluorescent lights.
You thrive in loud, you write.
There’s a pause.
Sometimes, he replies. Sometimes it’s just noise.
You sit with that for a second.
Then:
When are you back.
Next week.
Your stomach flips. You hate that it does.
Next week feels close. Close in a way Italy never did.
You try to sound casual.
That’s soon.
Yeah.
Another pause.
Will you be in New York at all, you ask before you can talk yourself out of it.
There’s a slightly longer beat this time.
Possibly. Not sure yet. Schedules are still moving around.
You nod to yourself like that makes it less vague.
Fair.
The typing bubble appears again.
Would you want to know if I am?
Your breath catches.
You read it twice.
It’s not a grand gesture. Not an invitation. Just a question.
But it feels like one.
You swallow and type carefully.
I think I would.
There’s no immediate response.
Just the faint hum of your office and your own pulse in your ears.
Then:
Okay.
Life keeps moving.
He flies back to the States and the day he lands your phone buzzes mid afternoon.
Made it. LA is aggressively sunny.
You smile at your desk.
Welcome back to chaos.
A photo comes through. Blurry palm trees from the window of a car. Another of what looks like a studio. Cables. A mic stand. Nothing flashy.
Proof of life, he writes.
You send one back without overthinking it. Your laptop open. Notes scattered across your desk. A coffee cup with lipstick on the rim.
Proof of deadlines.
He replies almost instantly.
Yours looks more organized than mine.
That’s a generous interpretation.
The weeks in LA settle into the same rhythm you built before. Messages between meetings. Late night replies when he’s done for the day.
Long one today, he texts one evening.
Good long or exhausting long.
A bit of both.
He sends a photo of a sunset over the hills. The sky pink and unreal.
You send back a photo of your street in the rain. Reflections in the pavement. A taxi splashing through a puddle.
Still louder, you caption it.
Still warmer here, he replies.
It feels steady. Not performative. Just two lives running parallel with small windows into each other.
You don’t talk about meeting. Not directly. It floats unspoken between you.
Until one night.
It’s late afternoon. You’re already in bed, half asleep, when your phone buzzes on your nightstand.
Raya.
You squint at the screen.
You up.
You blink, suddenly awake.
Unfortunately yes.
The typing bubble appears immediately.
I’m in New York.
You sit up in bed so fast you almost knock your lamp over.
What.
Another message.
One night. Early meetings tomorrow. Flying back out after.
Your heart is pounding now. Loud in the quiet of your apartment.
That’s… random.
Very.
You stare at the screen, trying to slow your breathing.
Where in the city, you type.
A pause.
Midtown. Hotel near the park.
Of course.
You swallow.
The distance between Italy and New York felt theoretical. LA felt far enough to be safe.
But this.
This is different.
Another message comes through.
Thought you’d want to know.
You stare at that one for a long time.
Your city. His one night.
The possibility hanging there.
You stare at Thought you’d want to know until the screen dims.
Your heart is beating too loud for how quiet your apartment is.
You could ignore the implication. You could say that’s exciting, hope it goes well. You could play it safe.
Instead, you sit up straighter and type carefully.
Busy schedule? Or do you get to pretend you’re a normal person for a few hours.
You erase it.
Too pointed.
You try again.
Any plans after your meetings.
Neutral. Almost casual.
You hit send before you can overthink it.
The typing bubble appears quickly. Disappears. Comes back.
I was hoping you might ask that.
Your stomach flips.
Then, another message.
No plans yet.
You inhale slowly.
He doesn’t leave it there.
Do you want to get a drink?
There’s no hedging. No vague maybe we should. No soft landing.
Just direct.
Your pulse kicks up again.
You stare at the message, reading it twice to make sure you didn’t invent it.
This is real. He is in your city. For one night.
You type back, forcing your fingers to stay steady.
That depends.
A pause.
On what.
You smile despite yourself.
On whether you’ve improved your argument skills.
Three dots.
I can lose in English too. Very versatile.
You laugh quietly.
Then you type what you actually mean.
What time?
It takes a few seconds longer this time.
I’m free after nine. I can come to you. Or we can meet somewhere you’re comfortable. If that’s not too late.
There it is again. Direct. But careful.
Not assuming.
Your chest feels tight in a way that isn’t panic. It’s anticipation.
You glance around your apartment like it might offer guidance.
There’s a place near me. Quiet but nice. Not Midtown chaos, you write.
The reply comes quickly.
Send me the name.
Another pause.
See you at nine.
Your breath catches at the simplicity of it.
No overcomplicating. No dramatic build.
Just a plan.
You lock your phone slowly and stare at your reflection in the dark window.
One night.
Nine o’clock.
The second you lock your phone, the calm dissolves.
You stand in the middle of your bedroom staring at your closet like it personally orchestrated this.
“This is ridiculous,” you mutter.
It is one drink. One man. One normal human interaction.
Except it is not normal and you know it.
You start pulling hangers aside too fast. Sweater. No. Too casual. Black dress. Absolutely not. That feels like you’re trying too hard. Jeans. Maybe. But which ones. The good ones. Obviously the good ones.
You sit on the edge of your bed and take a breath.
Cute and comfy. Well dressed. Effortless.
You settle on high waisted tailored trousers and a soft cream button up that drapes just right. Simple gold hoops. Loafers. Hair down, brushed out, not overly styled.
You look at yourself in the mirror.
You look like you. Just slightly steadier.
“Okay,” you whisper.
At 8:45 you’re pacing. At 8:50 you grab your coat. At 8:55 you’re walking faster than necessary.
The bar you chose is dim and narrow and usually quiet on weeknights. You push the door open at exactly 9:00.
No one else is there.
Just the bartender wiping down the counter and a couple in the corner booth speaking in low voices.
You swallow and walk to the bar, sliding onto a stool.
“Can I get you something?”
“Just a glass of red.”
Your phone sits face down on the bar in front of you.
9:02.
That’s fine. Two minutes means nothing.
You take a small sip of your wine and try not to look at the door every time it opens.
9:05.
He’s in Midtown. Traffic exists. Elevators exist. Security exists.
9:08.
Your stomach starts doing something uncomfortable.
You flip your phone over casually.
No new messages.
You open the app.
Nothing.
The last thing he said still sits there.
See you at nine.
You swallow.
9:10.
The bartender glances at the door when it opens. It’s not him. Just someone picking up a takeout order.
Heat creeps up your neck.
This is fine. You are early. Or he is late. That happens. That’s human.
9:12.
You open his profile again without meaning to. The same photos. The same half smile.
A ridiculous thought creeps in.
What if this is the long game.
What if you have been talking to someone who is not him. What if this is the punchline. What if you are about to become a story Camille tells at dinner parties.
9:15.
Your chest feels tight now.
You pick up your phone and hover over the chat.
You could send something casual.
You alive.
Too pointed.
All good.
Too needy.
You lock your phone again and place it back down carefully.
You will not spiral in public.
9:17.
The door opens again.
You look up automatically.
And for a split second, before your brain catches up, you think you might actually be getting catfished.
The door closes behind him and the cold air follows.
For half a second your brain doesn’t register anything except tall.
Then the details come into focus.
Black coat. Slightly windblown hair. That same half smile from the photos, only less curated. More real. His eyes scan the room quickly, adjusting to the dim light.
And then they land on you.
Recognition is instant.
Not confusion. Not hesitation.
Recognition.
Your stomach drops in a completely different way.
He walks toward the bar without rushing. Calm. Almost casual. Like this is just another Wednesday night and not the culmination of three weeks of careful conversation.
You are suddenly very aware of how you’re sitting. Of your hands. Of your face.
He stops a few feet away.
“Hi.”
His voice is softer than you expected. Warmer.
You blink once like your body needs to reboot.
“Hi.”
There’s a flicker of something in his expression. Relief, maybe. Like he wasn’t entirely sure either.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Elevator situation.”
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “That tracks.”
He smiles properly at that.
Up close, he looks exactly like himself and not at all like a screen version. There’s texture. Movement. A small crease near his eyes when he smiles.
“Is this seat taken?” he asks, nodding to the stool beside you.
You shake your head. “No.”
He slides onto it and shrugs off his coat, draping it over the back. The bartender appears immediately.
“Whiskey,” he says, then glances at you. “That okay?”
You nod, like you have any authority over it.
There’s a small beat of quiet once the bartender steps away.
This is the moment that could be awkward.
It isn’t.
He turns slightly toward you.
“You look like yourself,” he says.
You blink. “I don’t know what that means.”
“It means I wasn’t catfished.”
You laugh before you can stop yourself.
“That was absolutely my fear fifteen minutes ago.”
His eyebrows lift. “Really.”
“9:15 was dark for me.”
He laughs softly at that, shaking his head. “I should’ve sent a message. That’s on me.”
“It’s fine,” you say quickly. “You’re here.”
The simplicity of that lands between you.
He studies you for a second in a way that doesn’t feel invasive. Just present.
“You’re real,” he says quietly.
“I could say the same.”
He smiles again, smaller this time. Less public. More private.
The bartender sets his drink down. He thanks him absentmindedly without breaking eye contact with you.
For a moment the noise of the bar fades into the background.
It’s just the two of you. No typing bubbles. No time difference. No distance.
Just this.
He takes a sip of his drink and tilts his head slightly.
“So,” he says. “Hi.”
And somehow it feels like the beginning all over again.
Authors Note: Thank you to my friend @zclhes for making the new cover photo for this story!
