I wake up to a foot in my face.
Not metaphorically. An actual socked foot, hovering inches from my nose like it's trying to baptise me in athlete sweat.
I blink blearily at the ceiling, then at the foot again, as if it might apologise and move on its own.
Yuujin insisted on crashing at my apartment after karaoke. I can't help but feel like he's "keeping an eye on me" or hoping I cave and tell him the details of what's going on between Kai and me. But truthfully, I wouldn't know how to articulate it.
"Yuyu," I croak.
He's sprawled across my bed like he got dropped there from a height, one arm flung over his head, hair a mess, mouth slightly open. Dead asleep. Peaceful. Criminal.
I shove his ankle away with the back of my hand. It bounces right back, stubborn.
"Get your dogs out of my face," I mutter, and he makes a small noise like I've interrupted his dream.
Somehow, that's what makes me laugh quietly into my pillow.
Because it's morning, and my life is insane, and Yuujin has managed to turn my room into a hostage situation with his feet.
I shove his ankle harder.
Yuujin makes a sound as if I've personally wronged him, rolls onto his side, and drags the blanket with him, half-stealing it off me.
My throat is dry. My head doesn't hurt, not properly, but there's a tired heaviness behind my eyes that makes everything feel slightly delayed—like my body is still catching up.
Karaoke was supposed to be a reset. Noise, laughter, songs Ren butchered on purpose to be funny, Yuujin stealing the mic like he was born under a spotlight. I smiled at the right times. I sang when they shoved the tablet at me. I ate a few bites of fried chicken and pretended it tasted like anything other than cardboard.
I kept my phone face down the whole time.
And I kept thinking about the locker room.
The way he pulled back as if it hurt him more than it hurt me. The way Yuujin's voice cut through it like a knife.
Yuujin didn't let it go, either. Not really.
He waited until we were outside, away from Ren and Daichi, when the night air was cold and damp, and nobody could hear us over the trains.
"I swear," he said, walking a little too close beside me, "I walked into something back there."
"What are you talking about?" I tried to laugh it off. It came out thin.
Yuujin glanced at me sideways. Not teasing. Not playful. Just… watching.
"You and Kai," he said. "Ace. Be honest."
I looked at the street. At the wet pavement. At anything that wasn't his face.
"It was nothing," I said.
Yuujin made a sound like he didn't believe a word of it. "Nothing doesn't look like that. Hmph, I wonder what would have happened if I didn't walk in."
He didn't push harder. That's the thing that's been sticking in my throat ever since—Yuujin could've demanded answers, could've dragged it out of me like he always does when he's worried.
Instead, he just went quiet, like he'd seen something he didn't want to name out loud.
"Just—tell me you're okay," he said finally.
I nodded. It's easy to lie with your head. The truth is, it's not that I'm not okay—I just don't have a fucking clue how I feel.
Yuujin is still blinking awake when I swing my legs off the bed. I can feel a dull ache in my calf when I put weight on my foot, as if it's bruised on the inside, and my ankle is slightly sprained from the foul. If Kai hadn't been there to fix my leg up, even if only temporarily, I would've probably been out for the rest of the match.
My mouth tastes like sleep and leftover adrenaline. My phone lies on my desk, face down. I grab it before I can think too hard about the fact that Kai hasn't spoken to me since the soccer match, the locker room.
Instead, I see a text from Coach Nakamura.
Coach:
Sit out until your leg feels better.
We need you in one piece this season.
Keep working on team chemistry with Takato. I'm trying him for captain this season.
And incidentally, the team group chat has been really quiet since the initial buzz of the win. Riku, Kento and Tora haven't said a word.
Still, sitting out of practice until my injury heals stings a little bit. It's almost like permission to ruminate without a distraction.
"I'm going to run to the konbini," I mumble.
Yuujin squints at me from the bed, his hair flattened on one side. "Why?"
"Breakfast," I reply, as if it's obvious. Like I'm a normal person who does regular morning things.
He yawns, stretches, and flops back dramatically. "You're a saint."
I don't feel like one. I just feel like I need to move before he starts asking me questions again. I pull Kai's jacket off my desk chair and let it swallow my small frame before heading out the door.
The rain hasn't really let up since last night, though it finally seems to be easing off a little. Outside, everything is still soaked—a grey, heavy sort of morning where the air sticks to your skin. I can hear the gentle patter of drizzle on the balconies, and occasionally, the quiet hiss of slick tyres gliding over the wet tarmac.
The bell over the door chirps as I walk into the little 7-Eleven on my street.
It's one of the cramped ones I avoid on purpose—aisles too narrow, shelves too close, everything stacked high like it's trying to press you back out again. The same guy is behind the counter as always. He looks up when I walk in, eyes flicking over me in that quick, automatic way.
Then his gaze catches on the jacket.
It hangs wrong on my body. Too long in the sleeves, too broad in the shoulders. Expensive black fabric swallowing me like I'm trying to play dress-up in someone else's life.
His expression doesn't change, not really. But there's a pause. A second too long.
Heat crawls up my neck.
I grab breakfast fast: onigiri, a couple of cups of ramen, Ajitama[1], Ramune sodas and strawberry sandos because I know Yuujin will complain if he doesn't have something sweet with the savoury.
At the register, I don't make eye contact, but I can feel the clerk's eyes flick to the jacket again, then to my hands like he's checking for a story that makes sense.
I pay. I bow. I leave, and then I'm outside again.
My fingers shove into the jacket pocket out of habit.
And there it is.
Kai's cigarette pack.
Black box. Gold accents. The kind of thing that looks more like a business card than nicotine. I stare at it for a second, then pull it out like I'm stealing something.
This is weird, my brain supplies immediately.
This is so weird.
I shouldn't. It's not mine. It's his. Normal people don't take someone else's cigarettes and stand outside convenience stores in their jacket like they're auditioning for some pathetic indie film.
My thumb nudges the lid open anyway.
A row of gold filters lines up inside, like they're waiting; the white-filtered cigarette I had replaced with one of his sits there, looking soft in contrast to the pretentious gold ones.
I take another one of Kai's.
The paper crinkles softly. The smallest sound, and my stomach flips like I've done something bigger than I have.
I turn it between my fingers, watching the gold catch the grey morning light.
I could put it back. I could close the box and go upstairs and eat breakfast with Yuujin and pretend I'm normal.
Instead, I tuck the pack away again and hold the cigarette like it's a decision.
Because I can still see that torn planner page in my head, I can feel it burning through the inside pocket against my chest. The handwriting. The dates. The way my apartment number sat there like a pin on a map.
Kai tracked me first. He started this.
Kai knows where I live. What I eat. When I sleep. When I skip meals. When I fall apart.
And he has the audacity to stand there in my life, silent, pretending he's not doing anything at all.
So if this is weird—if this is me crossing a line—then fine.
He drew the line. I'm just stepping over it.
I bring the cigarette up, not lighting it yet, just resting it between my fingers and staring out at the wet street like I'm waiting for something to happen.
My phone feels heavy in my pocket. My thumb finds it anyway. I pull it out like it's nothing, unlocking and opening Instagram. Like I'm just killing time before I head back upstairs. Like I'm not standing here with someone else's cigarette between my fingers, wearing a jacket that still smells faintly like Kai's cologne.
The drizzle taps the awning above me. The street is slick and empty enough to feel exposed. A couple of people pass with umbrellas, heads down, moving like they've got somewhere better to be.
I lift my hand, watching the sleeve hang past my knuckles, dark with rain at the cuff. The gold filter flashes when I shift the cigarette.
It looks wrong on me.
Which is probably why I can't stop looking at it.
I open the camera and angle it down. The frame catches my hand, the jacket sleeve, the wet pavement blurred beneath, the cigarette low in frame like an accident, like I didn't mean for it to be seen.
My thumb hovers over the shutter.
This is stupid.
I take it anyway.
The photo sits there, too quiet, too intimate for what it is. I stare at it for a second longer than I should, then add the smallest caption I can get away with.
still raining.
I post.
The story circle appears at the top of my screen, bright and innocent, and my stomach twists like I've thrown something sharp into the air and now I'm waiting to see where it lands.
No views yet. Of course not. It's barely been a minute.
I lock my phone, shove it back into my pocket like that'll stop the urge, and lean my shoulder against the wall under the awning. The cigarette stays between my fingers, unlit. A prop. A threat. A joke I'm making at my own expense.
Rainwater runs off the edge of the awning in a steady drip.
My phone buzzes once.
Not a notification. Just the vibration of my own imagination.
I pull it out again.
One view.
Then another.
Then a few more.
My thumb scrolls down the viewer list before I can pretend I'm not going to.
And there it is.
takato.kai-
My breath catches so hard it almost hurts.
I stare at his name until my eyes sting, as if by looking long enough it'll turn into something else, into a message, a reaction, a crack in the wall.
It doesn't.
But my pulse is loud in my ears, and the rain suddenly feels colder.
Now I know he's watching.
I move to a designated glass-walled smoking area, the city rushing by outside. I light up, the taste of Kai's brand is still sharp and unfamiliar. For a moment, surrounded by the scent of him, it almost felt like I was borrowing his presence, just enough to steady my nerves and reflect before stepping back into the crowd and facing Yuujin when I get home.
I should be furious with Kai after what happened in the locker room. Maybe I am. But it's not the clean kind of anger where you slam a door and walk away. It's the kind that sits under my skin and hums, because it comes with a realisation I can't unlearn.
He wanted it.
Not in a vague, hypothetical way. Not in the way people want things they'll never reach for. He wanted it in his body—right there, in the locker room, close enough that I could hear his breath stutter and feel the moment he almost stopped pretending. He looked like he was holding himself back. Like he was waiting for me to give him a reason to let go. I swear, I felt it. He leaned in.
I've been telling myself I'm the one chasing him. That I'm the one who's weak. That I'm the one who keeps getting pulled around by his mood, his distance, his silence.
But that's not what it felt like when my fingers caught his clothes.
It felt like I'd hit a nerve.
And the worst part is how quickly my brain turns that into a thought I shouldn't enjoy: I can make you react. I can make Kai Takato—new team captain, golden boy, locked door—lose control for half a second just by standing too close and wanting him out loud.
That changes things.
It means this isn't one-sided. It doesn't mean the distance proves he doesn't feel anything. It's proof he does, and he's trying to outrun it.
And if that's true, then maybe I've been playing his game wrong this whole time. Maybe I don't have to chase him at all.
Maybe I just have to pull.
By the time I'm home, Yuujin is already up. He's stood at the kitchen counter pouring himself coffee and humming along to a familiar song playing from his phone.
When Yuujin hears the door click open, he squints at me as if trying to figure out if I'm real.
Then his eyes fall.
On the jacket.
His brows lift slowly, and the corner of his mouth twitches like he's holding back a laugh.
"No way," he says.
I stop mid-step. "What?"
He gestures at me with the mug in his hand, like I'm proof. "That is not your jacket, Ace."
"It's—" My throat catches. "He lent it to me."
Yuujin's eyes widen slightly, as if that sentence just confirmed something he's been thinking about since last night. He nods once, slowly.
"Okay," he says, his voice careful and way too amused. "Right."
He looks from my face to the jacket again, and his amusement shifts into something sharper.
"…So I didn't imagine it," he murmurs.
My stomach drops. "Imagine what?"
Yuujin makes a vague gesture with his free hand, like he's trying to describe smoke.
"The vibe," he says. "Back there. In the locker room."
Heat rushes to my face. "There was no—"
Yuujin cuts me off with a quiet laugh. Not mean, just disbelieving. "Ace. Please."
He takes a sip of coffee to steady himself, then lowers the mug and looks at me seriously.
"Are you two…?" Yuujin lifts his hands and makes a crude little gesture—his finger poking through the circle of his other hand—then winces like he can't believe he just did that.
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out right.
"It's not like that," I say, too quickly.
Yuujin's eyebrows shoot up. "You're saying that way too fast."
I glare at him, but it doesn't work. My face feels hot. My chest feels tight. The jacket suddenly feels heavier on my shoulders, like it's making a statement.
Yuujin tilts his head, studying me like he's already figured me out. "I'm not judging," he says softly. "I just—"
I don't let him finish. I slide the convenience store bag across the counter like it's a peace offering. Plastic rustling loudly in the quiet of my kitchen.
Yuujin looks down at the bag, then back at me. His mouth twitches like he's deciding whether to push or play along.
He chooses the latter.
"Wow," he says, pouring hot water from the already-boiled kettle into his ramen cup. "Ramen and strawberry sandos. What have you done with my best friend?"
"Eat," I tell him as if food can patch a hole in the air.
We eat sitting on the floor of my bedroom with the TV playing an anime we've already watched in the background. Kai's jacket is sprawled across my bed.
I cool the ramen with my breath, take a bite and realise I can't taste it properly. My jaw aches from clenching all night. The worst part is that the tension has nowhere to go; the uncertainty gnaws at my insides, and I can't stop wondering what Kai is thinking about right now.
He saw my post, the jacket, the cigarette. He knows by now that I've been through his pockets, and he still hasn't said anything. I almost want to say, 'fuck it' and text him, but that means I lose. I'm done chasing, asking for scraps like I don't have any pride left.
Yuujin's phone buzzing by his feet pulls me out of my spiral.
He glances at the screen, and his whole face changes, brightening in that easy-going way.
"I know that look," I say, pointing my chopsticks at him like an accusation. "Is it Mei?"
His grin widens like he's been caught doing something wholesome. "Maybe." He taps the screen once, and his thumbs start flying. "She wants to come over to mine tonight."
I make a face as if I'm about to tease.
"Don't start," Yuujin says, laughing, and shoves a bite of onigiri into his mouth like it'll protect him.
I try to keep my voice light, teasing. "So what, you just matched on an app and you just…invite her over?"
Yuujin pauses mid-chew. Not because he's shocked. Because he understands exactly what I'm asking. He swallows, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and shrugs like this is the most normal question.
"Yeah," he says. "We hook up. Keep each other company." The way he's talking about it is as if it's the most uncomplicated thing in the world, which makes me break eye contact with him.
Then, Yuujin can't seem to help himself, almost like he's been waiting to talk about it. "Granted, it's the longest I've hooked up with someone like this from the app."
"Mhm, the longest," I repeat, nodding along.
He holds up a hand. "Don't make it weird."
"You made it weird," I laugh and nudge him on the shoulder before he can escape the conversation by shoving food into his face.
Yuujin rolls his eyes, then leans forward, a little more thoughtful now. "It can't be serious," he says, like he's reciting something he's already told himself. "She'll probably go back to China once she graduates. That's the reality. We're just…"
He shrugs again, like it's nothing.
But his eyes are softer than his tone.
"To be truthful," Yuujin adds, picking at the edge of his ramen cup, "take what I say with a pinch of salt when it comes to relationships. I'm not exactly good at them."
I don't respond, but he knows I'm listening. I'm watching his hands, the way he fidgets when he's being honest.
He huffs a small laugh. "I've gotten too used to using these apps," he admits. "There are people looking for something serious, yeah. But a lot of it is just—" He searches for the word, then gives up and uses the truth. "People are trying to be less lonely. It's mostly sex."
The apartment falls into a hush, like a held breath, when the episode ends—then snaps awake as the next one bursts onto the screen.
My voice comes out smaller than I want. "Um—do—" I stop myself. Restart. "Do guys like to—find other guys on these apps?"
Yuujin's eyebrows lift, but he doesn't tease me. He studies my face, checking what kind of question this really is.
Then he answers so casually. "Yeah—of course they do. There are apps exclusively for that."
Now I'm the one fidgeting.
Yuujin continues, casual but not careless. "I've been with a few guys—uhm—most of the time it was fine, honestly." He pauses, then gives a small, wincing smile. "But sometimes they can come on a bit too strong, even for me."
"Too strong?" I snort despite myself.
Yuujin points at me with his phone. "It might sound exciting in theory," he says, deadpan. "But have you ever been sent a dick pic on a Monday morning while you're in class?"
I choke on a laugh. "Yuyu—"
"I'm being serious," he says, and it's still funny because of how straight-faced he is. "There are creeps on the internet, Anri. Surely, even you know that."
I stare at my own hands, the fine hairs on my arm prickle.
Yuujin's tone softens a notch. "I do like guys," he says simply. "But girls feel safer. Less unpredictable." He tilts his head. "You don't judge me for that?"
"Of course not," I say quickly. "Why would I?"
Yuujin nods like he's choosing to believe me. He takes another bite of his onigiri, then glances at me over the wrapper.
"Why you asking?" he says gently.
My pulse jumps.
"I'm not asking," I lie. "I'm just curious."
Yuujin hums, unconvinced, but he doesn't push. Instead, he gives me a stupid puppy-eyed look that I know all too well. "Are you going to eat your strawberry sando?" he asks, already leaning over to take it. I'm not going to stop him. He bites and swallows half in one go, like it's his rent, and turns his attention back to the TV.
One episode blurs into the next. Yuujin acts like he's hanging on every twist, but I know for a fact he's seen this season twice already. He laughs at all the same jokes, every single time, like they're brand new. And then, of course, he starts reciting lines half a second before the characters do. Every time. I glare at him, but he just puts on that innocent face, like he has no idea why I'm annoyed. Honestly, it's a miracle I haven't thrown a cushion at him yet.
The way Yuujin keeps trying to hide that unbelievably human smile when his phone buzzes every so often makes me envious in a way that I'd feel too guilty to admit out loud. I'm not jealous of Yuujin exactly. It feels more like grief because it looks so easy for someone to want him back and show it.
Yuujin shifts, leaning his shoulder into mine, warm and familiar. "Sorry," he murmurs, still typing. I glance at his screen without really meaning to, then divert my eyes because even from a first glance, it's just back-and-forth flirting, and I didn't mean to be invasive. "She's just asking what snacks I have."
I snort. "Mhm—snacks."
He laughs. "Shut up."
We finish the season anyway. The final credits roll. The room feels hollow when it ends, like we ran out of something to hide behind.
Yuujin stretches, cracking his neck. "Okay," he says, checking his phone again. He tries to sound casual. "I should probably head off. She's gonna come over soon."
"Mhmm," I say, eyes still on the TV even though it's gone dark.
He starts cleaning up without being asked, gathering the empty wrappers and ramen cups as if he's clearing the tension with them.
My ankle aches faintly when I stand up again, and Yuujin steadies me.
"I'm benched until it heals," I admit. "You're going to have to tell me what goes down at practice this week."
Yuujin doesn't hesitate. He leans forward, eyebrows raised, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You mean, you want to know what Kai's doing?"
"Maybe," I murmur, not quite meeting his eyes.
He lets out an exaggerated sigh and throws his hands up in mock despair. "You're killing me here. What's going on between you two?"
I roll my eyes and start picking at a loose thread on the sleeve of my shirt. "There's nothing going on," I mumble. "It's complicated."
Yuujin starts putting his shoes on and drops a bombshell into thin air. "You're hopeless! Does he know you're into him?"
I freeze, caught off guard by how blunt he can be sometimes. My fingers stop picking at my sleeve. "What?" I'm not—" I start, but my voice cracks a little. I look away, suddenly fascinated by the floor. "I mean—I don't know—is it obvious?"
Yuujin lets out a dramatic groan, grinning like he caught me red-handed. "Is it obvious?" He mimics, pitching his voice higher. "It's obvious to me because I know you, and as for Kai, well—" he stands by the door. "Isn't his major psychology? Ace, you're fucked. He probably knows."
I let out a shaky laugh, rubbing the back of my neck. "Shut up," I mutter, but it comes out weak.
Yuujin just beams at me like he's done something noble. Like he's helped. Like he hasn't just taken a scalpel to my nerves and left me bleeding in my own apartment.
He grabs his bag and swings it over his shoulder, still smiling. "I'm serious," he says, softer now. "Just don't let it eat you alive, okay?"
"I won't," I lie, because it's the quickest answer.
Yuujin points at me, two fingers like a warning. "Text me if you spiral."
"I'm literally fine."
He raises an eyebrow.
I sigh, defeated. "Okay. I'll text you."
"Good," he says, like I've passed a test. Then he opens the door, pauses with his hand on the handle like he's about to say something else, and decides against it.
He flashes me one last grin instead. "Try not to commit any crimes while I'm gone."
"Go get laid," I shoot back.
Yuujin laughs, and then he's gone, his footsteps fading down the corridor, the sound of the building swallowing him up.
The lock clicks.
The quiet that follows is immediate. The room seems to lose its warmth the second he leaves.
I stand there for a moment too long, hand still half-raised like I'm expecting Yuujin to poke his head back in and call me hopeless again.
My phone sits on the bed, right next to Kai's jacket. It's been quietly demanding my attention all night, even though I keep pretending it hasn't. I flip it over, just in case.
Nothing. No messages. Of course, there's nothing from Kai. Just that stupid view on my story, sitting there like a fingerprint; proof he was here, even if he never actually touched anything. Presence without contact. That's all I get.
I open the story back up just to stare at his name again until the screen dims, and I tap it awake again like I can force it to change.
I flop onto my bed next to his jacket that smells faintly like his cigarettes; his scent still lingers, but I can tell it's fading, which makes my heart sink because I don't want proof of him to disappear.
My fingers bunch against the soft fabric of the inner lining.
For a second, it hits me in the most humiliating way—my breath stutters, heat pools in my stomach, and my body reacts—flush with want like it thinks he's here. Like I'm trained. The waistband of my boxers suddenly feels too tight, and I hate myself for noticing. I hate myself for needing him like this, for wanting him so badly I'll take his absence and turn it into hunger.
I squeeze my eyes shut, press my face into the jacket, inhale again like I can steal him back through the fabric. Vivid flashes of his lips, a hairsbreadth away from mine, snap into my memory like a wave. The way my hand had been caught on the waistband of his slacks, and how I would have reached lower if he kissed me. I wanted to find out if he'd stop me or let me learn him the way my body was begging to.
I make a sound I don't recognise and bite it down hard.
No.
If I let myself sink into it, I won't come back up. I'll lie here and replay it until I'm stupid with hunger, until my body starts begging for a ghost and getting off on the fantasy just to feel real again.
Indulging myself isn't the point.
I have to remind myself that he pushed me away after he almost kissed me. He dismissed me when I needed him to reassure me that I'm not crazy. That I'm not just something to mess around with because I keep coming back. He has the audacity to keep track of me, watch me and even when I know what he's doing should be weird, it doesn't stop me from wanting him.
If he wants to keep acting like he's made of stone, then fine. I'll treat him like stone. I'll stop knocking and start throwing. I'll give him something worth watching.
The room is dim, lit by the streetlight bleeding through the blinds. Rain ticks against the balcony rail in lazy, leftover drops. My phone is face down on the bed like it's trying to behave.
I flip it over.
Just up the ante.
I shove myself up, the mattress creaking beneath me, and stalk over to the mirror by the door.
I put Kai's jacket on; it hangs off my shoulders like it's daring me to be reckless. I yank the zip halfway up, then stop, fingers twitching. I pull down the collar so it falls wide, exposing more skin than I probably should. My breaths are shaky, and my pulse is thudding in my throat. I shift my weight, rolling my shoulders, watching the fabric slip lower; just enough that cool air brushes over the skin. Just enough that if I move the wrong way, it might look accidental.
My hair is messy, and I rake my fingers through it, shake my hand to fluff it up. My eyes look wild with something I don't recognise, glaring back at me in the mirror. I tilt my head back, exposing the line of my throat, the dip of my collarbone, like I'm offering something I'll pretend I didn't mean to. Like I want Kai to see exactly what he's missing.
I lift my phone to the mirror with the camera open. I angle it down so it isn't my face. Just the jacket. Just my fingers poking out of the sleeve when I hold the phone. Just a sliver of me.
I take the photo.
I don't even look at it, heat curling low again, and then I post it before I can talk myself out of it.
Caption: can't sleep.
The story circle appears at the top of my screen, bright and innocent. Like I didn't just do that on purpose.
I throw my phone onto the bed.
Then I snatch it back up ten seconds later.
Views start trickling in. Teammates. Random mutuals. A couple of people I barely know. I scroll, pretending I'm detached, pretending I don't care.
Then, again. Kai's handle shows up among the others.
A sharp, stupid thrill shoots through me. It's not relief. It's not happiness. It's that awful rush of being seen—and the anger that comes with it, because he can look at me like this and still keep his mouth shut.
I wait. A minute turns into five, into ten.
He's looking, but he's not reacting. I start scrolling, feigning nonchalance. Maybe his silence is hidden somewhere between posts and people I don't care about. I refresh my DMs list like I'm desperate.
I'm back in bed with Kai's jacket draped around me. Time starts slipping without me noticing. The screen glow keeps changing as my thumb drags through nonsense: memes, edits, photos of food, Kai's profile; refreshing in case he posts.
At some point, the clock on my phone reads past midnight. The rain has stopped, and the air has gone stale along with my mood.
Being watched isn't enough.
My thumb moves before my pride can catch up. App store. Search bar.
I pause with the cursor blinking, like the phone is holding its breath with me. It's worse because I know I'm taking this too far. That should be enough to talk myself out of what I'm about to do.
But I'm not doing anything. Not really. I'm not going to meet with anyone. I'm not going to match with anyone.
I'm just looking.
I'm just curious.
Just to see.
I hit download on the first queer-friendly dating app I see. The progress bar starts to fill, slow enough that I have time to talk myself out of it. But my stomach still twists like it's something I can't undo.
I tell myself I can delete it whenever I want.
The bar creeps forward anyway.
The icon lands on my home screen, and I tap it open like I'm ripping off a plaster.
The screen flashes white, too bright for midnight. A silly loading animation with a cheerful font that feels wrong for something that makes my breath get stuck in my throat.
Of course, the app wants my location and wants me to customise my profile until my existence boils down to being a menu. I fill the bare minimum out, half hoping it'll crash and save me from myself.
Then it wants photos. My camera roll opens and I scroll too fast, past pictures that are too personal. I pick something safe. Not my face. A crop. Something that could be anyone if I had to deny it later. In the bio, I type: just curious.
I hit save.
Profiles fill the screen: faces, torsos, smiles. Distances in tiny text beneath each one, like suddenly the city feels too small.
My phone buzzes before I can even process what I'm seeing.
New message request.
Then the number next to the inbox icon keeps going up.
Another notification pops up: Someone liked you.
I can't tell the difference between attention and affection.
This is insane.
"Just looking," I whisper under my breath, like saying it out loud makes it true.
Then my phone buzzes again.
New message request.
And I realise—cold, thrilling, awful—
I've already started.
[1] Ajitama, or ajitsuke tamago (味付け玉子), are Japanese marinated soft-boiled eggs featuring jammy, custard-like yolks and a savoury, sweet soy-based flavour. Essential as a ramen topping.