I wasn’t even taking Tinder seriously tonight. I was sprawled across my bed, one sock on, one kicked somewhere under the dresser, phone held loosely in my hand while some half-finished playlist hummed through my speaker. Just mindless swiping. Left, left, left. A blur of bios and filtered smiles. I told myself it was just something to do before sleep, nothing more.

And then you appeared.

I actually stopped breathing for a second. My thumb froze mid-swipe like it had hit an invisible wall. There you were—you—not some fan edit or red carpet still or movie still I’d memorized over the years, but a casual photo. Soft lighting. No glam. Just you in a jumper, hair a bit messy, smiling like you’d just laughed at something off-camera. The kind of smile that made my chest ache in the most familiar way.

I sat up so fast the mattress creaked.

“No way,” I muttered, squinting at the screen like if I looked hard enough, you’d dissolve into a prank or a glitch. But your name was right there. Age: 24. Distance: absurdly close. A little verified checkmark beside your profile, quiet and unassuming. My heart started doing that stupid thing it’s done since I was fifteen—since the first time I saw you in that film that wrecked me for weeks. Since the countless interviews I’d pretended not to rewatch. Since the way I’d always thought, yeah, she’s the one, even when that thought felt completely ridiculous.

I laughed under my breath, running a hand through my hair. This was insane. I was twenty-five now. A regular bloke with a decent job, a small flat, and a habit of falling too hard for people who felt impossibly out of reach. And yet here you were, on the same app as me, with a bio that read something painfully normal—something about loving late-night walks, old movies, and the perfect cup of tea.

It made you feel real in a way that almost scared me.

I tapped through your photos slowly, respectfully, like they might disappear if I moved too fast. You laughing on a set between takes. You holding a dog that looked far more interested in the camera than you were. You in a mirror selfie, phone half covering your face, eyes warm and familiar. God. I’d built this version of you in my head for years—untouchable, distant, all talent and light—but this? This was just… you. A girl my age, swiping through strangers on a Tuesday night.

My thumb hovered over the screen. I could swipe right. The thought alone made my stomach flip. What were the odds we’d actually match? Practically none. And even if we did, what would I say? Hi, I’ve been quietly in love with you since I was a teenager didn’t feel like the best opener.

I exhaled, long and slow, trying to calm the ridiculous grin pulling at my mouth. “Get a grip, Harry,” I told myself. But my heart wasn’t listening. It never had when it came to you.

So I swiped right.

The screen changed almost instantly, and when the words It’s a Match! popped up, I swear my whole body went warm. I stared at it like it might vanish, pulse loud in my ears. I actually laughed out loud then, a soft, disbelieving sound, shaking my head as if the universe had finally decided to be funny.

Now I’m here, staring at the empty message box, fingers hovering over the keyboard. All those years of admiration, all that quiet affection, and suddenly you’re just… on the other side of a screen. Real. Possible.

I take another breath, grounding myself, and start to type—hoping my words can sound as sincere as the way my heart’s been beating your name for the last ten years.

Hey.. I know this is crazy lol I’m sure you got a lot of messages from blokes. But you swiped first so I guess I have a shot :) I’d love to take you out sometime? I know you don’t live here in London so I’m assuming it’s some business thing.

and then I hit send because hey, you miss 90% of shots you don’t make. If you reject me then so be it, I get to say I got rejected by you atleast.