Maya Bennett always hated how quiet her apartment got at night. There was something about the stillness—after the podcasts were off, the final email had been sent, and her wine glass half-emptied—that made the silence sound accusatory.
Her therapist once called it "empty room syndrome." Maya preferred to call it "being single in New York after 28."
The glow of her phone illuminated her face as she lay curled on the left side of her queen bed. She swiped absentmindedly through a parade of faces on HeartSync, a dating app she had downloaded under social pressure rather than romantic hope. Corporate smiles. Mirror selfies. Shirtless gym flexes. One guy even posed with a taxidermy owl.
Left. Left. Left.
Her thumb paused.
Eli M.
32. Freelance photographer. Lives in Brooklyn.
Bio: "Looking for something real. Coffee and conversation > clubs and cocktails."
Maya squinted at his profile photo—a black-and-white street portrait of an older man laughing with a paper cone of chestnuts in his hand. The second photo was Eli himself: strong features, five o'clock shadow, kind eyes. There was something quiet about him, something... still. Not in a boring way. In a safe way.
Her thumb hovered.
"I know that look," came Zoe's voice on FaceTime, floating from her propped-up iPad nearby. "You've found another 'artist with a tortured soul,' haven't you?"
Maya snorted. "Shut up. He's cute."
"And probably emotionally unavailable," Zoe quipped. "Your type."
Maya rolled her eyes, but smiled. "I'm swiping right."
It's a match.
Almost immediately, a message bubble popped up.
Eli: UX designer, huh? So you're one of the masterminds making us click "Agree" to the terms we never read?
Maya smirked.
Maya: Only the ones with soul. And better kerning.
That was the start of it.
Their banter flowed easily. Texts turned into voice notes. He had a deep, calming voice that somehow made her forget the day's chaos. He sent her snippets of jazz songs and photos of shadows on buildings. They discussed David Lynch movies and the ethical minefield of A.I. art. She hadn't even met him, but she already looked forward to hearing that little buzz on her phone.
He was out of town working on a project in upstate New York. "A series on abandoned diners," he'd said. "Frozen time."
She liked that about him. He wasn't trying to impress her with flash. He seemed real. Thoughtful. Present. That was rare.
By the time a week passed, Maya found herself laughing at her phone in meetings, staying up until 2 AM listening to him talk about how the world looked different through a camera lens. He made her feel like she was interesting—like she wasn't just a cog in a tech company or another pretty face on an app.
One night, as rain tapped lightly against the windows, he sent a voice note.
"Back in the city. I know we haven't met yet. And no pressure at all. But I'd really like to see you in real life. You still drink oat milk lattes with a shot of cinnamon, right?"
She laughed. He remembered.
Maya stared at the message for a moment, her heart doing that half-thrill, half-fear flutter it always did when something could go either way.
Maya: Let's meet.