SHE FIDGETS
919 Words
The welcome screen faded in:
"Let's get started. Create your profile."
Her stomach gave a nervous little rumble, and her fingers froze. Create a profile… as if she
needed another way to feel awkward tonight.
“Okay… here goes nothing,” she murmured.
The app asked for a photo first. Her mind resisted, and yet she scrolled through her gallery,
hunting for something decent—recent, not too casual, not too revealing.
“Damn, I fucken need new pictures,” she muttered, almost laughing at herself.
All she found were old photos—some too casual, some blurred. None felt like her. She finally
chose one anyway: a small, honest smile, teeth hidden, nothing too personal.Her thumb hovered over the upload button. She stared at the phone, and the phone stared
back. Her own reflection looked tired, wary, hesitant.
Finally, she pressed upload. A small weight lifted from her shoulders as the image appeared in
the app: tiny, square, unmistakably her.
“That’s… okay,” she whispered. “Just fine.”
Next came the bio. The cursor blinked at her, accusingly. Words refused to come.
What do I even write?
“Hi”—too short.
“I love movies”—too generic.
“I am just me”—too weird.
Her fingers hovered, then started typing almost randomly:
"Hello, just tryin’ this out."
There. Safe. Barely revealing. Not embarrassing.
She tapped DONE, unaware that the app would redirect her to another setup page. Age,
location, interests. She skipped almost everything, reluctantly filling only the required fields.
Her hands shook slightly as she scrolled past optional sections. For a moment, it felt like
someone was watching her through the phone, peering straight into her soul. She let out a
quiet, shaky sigh of relief.
“Why does everything feel like an audition?” she whispered.
Finally, she tapped SAVE, almost letting go of a small, fragile hope that this would be quick and
painless. The screen refreshed. Her profile was live. Barebones. Nothing to regret. Nothing to
brag about.
She stared at the screen. Small. Insignificant. And yet heavy—heavier than she expected. Like
a door had been opened that she wasn’t ready for.
Elara locked the phone and laid back on her bed, staring at the ceiling as the blue light washed
over her. Her hands itched to pick it up again, but she resisted. Not yet. She had crossed some
invisible threshold.
The profile existed. But she wasn’t swiping. Not yet. Part of her was relieved. Another part
quietly trembled at what might come next.
Elara lasted about four minutes. She had been lying on her bed, staring at the ceiling,
pretending she didn’t care about the app quietly sitting on her phone. Pretending she hadn’t just
opened a door she swore she would never enter.
A sigh escaped her lips as she reached for her phone and unlocked it. The red glow of Tinder
reflected off her face, sharp against the soft blue light of her room. She stared at the screen for
a second… then turned it off again.
“You fuckenn got this, Lara,” she muttered to herself.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she powered it back on. Her thumbs hovered over the app icon.
Tap. The app opened immediately, like it had been waiting for this moment. She swallowed
hard.
The first profile appeared: a young man, sunglasses on, mild smile, standing beside what
looked like an expensive car. His bio read: “Entrepreneur, loves to travel, big on royalty.”
“An entrepreneur, huh? What does that even mean?” she whispered. Does everyone now own a
company?She studied the picture, read the bio again. Zoomed in by accident, then quickly zoomed out.
She felt nothing. No curiosity. No dislike. Just… blank.
Her thumb moved before she even thought about it. Swipe right. The screen shifted. Her
stomach flipped.
“Was that too fast?” she murmured. Shouldn’t she have thought longer?
The next profile appeared. A gym mirror selfie. Sharp jawline. Shirt slightly lifted. Gym addict, no
drama. Just vibes.
“Impressive,” she said with a smirk. But she didn’t feel anything.
Swipe left. Then pause. Was that harsh? Too picky? Too careless? Too serious?
Another profile. Another smile. Another travel photo. Another CEO. Another dog dad. Then yet
another: loves to travel.
Her thumb started to go numb. Swipes came faster now. Right, left, left, right, left. Faces blurred
together. Perfect pictures, perfect lighting, perfect poses. Bios sounded like they were all copied
from the same invisible script.
She lay back, head on the pillow.
“Why does everyone take pictures in front of cars?” she murmured. Swipe.
“Why are all of them holding drinks?” Swipe.
“Is this what dating is now?” Swipe.
Her movements became mechanical, automatic. The nervous tightness in her chest dissolved
into something else: boredom.
She skimmed instead of reading. Bios blurred into single words: Entrepreneur, investor, gym,
crypto, travel, vibes. She could almost guess a bio just by looking at the picture and the type of
car in the background.
Her thumb grew numb. Slow. She wasn’t even reacting anymore. This wasn’t exciting. It was
exhausting. Burning her out.
Maybe Cynthia was wrong. Maybe this wasn’t for her. Maybe she wasn’t cut out for this modern,
swipe-left, swipe-right version of dating. Maybe she preferred the quiet certainty of being alone
to this strange, artificial marketplace of polished selves. Maybe she didn’t belong anywhere at
all.
- Writer
