There’s a strange calm that settles in after something ends properly. Not the kind that feels like relief exactly—more like the emotional equivalent of clearing a table once everyone’s gone home. You notice what’s missing, but you also notice the space it’s left behind.

Things with Doja ended months ago now. No fireworks. No dramatic fallout. Just two people realising, gradually and without much ceremony, that the rhythms didn’t match. Too much noise. Too many eyes. Lives moving at different speeds. We said the right things on the way out. Wished each other well. Meant it. And still, when it was quiet again, I felt the echo of it linger longer than I expected.

That’s usually when I circle back to old habits.

Raya finds its way back onto my phone in those moments—not with urgency, not with optimism, just… familiarity. Profile active again. Same photos I uploaded years ago, back when I still believed an app might be a shortcut to something meaningful. I don’t scroll endlessly. Never have. I swipe when the mood strikes—late nights, long afternoons, moments when the city feels a bit too big and I feel oddly peripheral inside it.

I’ve matched with a few women. Talked. Laughed. Gone for drinks when conversation felt easy enough to justify a coat and an Uber. Once or twice, it went further—pleasant, uncomplicated, fleeting. The sort of connection that feels nice in the moment and leaves very little behind the next morning. No one’s done anything wrong. No sparks missed. Just no gravity.

I think I’ve accepted that I’m not built for constant rotation. I need something to catch. Something to stay.

This afternoon, I’m out walking without aim, which is how I prefer London when I’m not working. No headphones. Just the sound of traffic, footsteps, snippets of conversation drifting past. I duck into a small bistro I’ve been meaning to try—tables close together, windows fogged slightly from the warmth inside. The sort of place where you can sit alone without feeling conspicuous.

I order lunch, shrug out of my coat, roll my sleeves once, then again. My phone sits on the table beside my cutlery. I don’t check it immediately. I never do. There’s something faintly desperate about reaching too quickly.

Then it buzzes.

I glance at it, expecting nothing in particular. Another group chat. A reminder. Instead, it’s Raya.

A new match.

I feel it first in my chest before it reaches my face—a small, involuntary lift. I tell myself not to assign meaning to it. That this is just muscle memory. Dopamine. Conditioning. Still, I unlock the screen and open the app.

I take my time with her profile. Properly look. There’s no over-polish, no sense of someone curating a version of themselves for approval. Her photos feel candid. Comfortable. There’s humour in the bio—not sharp, not defensive. Just observant. It makes me smile in that quiet way that doesn’t quite register as smiling until you notice your face doing it.

The waiter passes, sets down my water, asks something polite. I nod, thank him, wait until he’s gone before turning my attention back to the phone. I hover over the keyboard longer than necessary, thumb resting uselessly while my brain tries to talk me out of engaging.

I type anyway.

Hi. I’m sitting in a bistro pretending I didn’t order too much lunch. Thought I’d say hello while I was waiting.

I read it once. Twice. Consider deleting the whole thing and starting again. Decide against it.

I add:

Hope your afternoon’s being kind to you.

I send it before I can overthink myself into silence.

The phone goes face-down on the table. I lean back in my chair, cross one ankle over the other, rub my thumb along the edge of the wood. Outside, someone laughs too loudly. A bus hisses past. Life carries on at its usual, indifferent pace.

I don’t expect anything. That’s the trick I’ve learned—keep expectations low, keep curiosity gentle. Still, when the screen lights up again a few minutes later, I don’t pretend I didn’t notice immediately.

I pick it up.