The house was too quiet.

Marshall sat in his home studio, lights low, beat looping in the background, unfinished lyrics scattered across a notepad like a confession he couldn’t complete. He hadn’t been with anyone in months. Not seriously in years.

Not since the last time ended with someone walking away because they couldn’t handle the weight of his silence. Or his past. Or his name.

He wasn’t craving a hookup — not really. It was deeper than that. He missed intimacy. The kind you could sink into. The kind that came at 2 a.m. when she pulled his hoodie over her bare skin and curled into his chest like it meant something.

He pulled up his laptop.

It had started as a joke in a group chat — someone mentioned Joyclub. He didn’t respond. But later, in bed alone, the name wouldn’t leave his mind.

He typed it in. Browsed. Didn’t even mean to stay.

But hours passed.

The profiles were raw, bold. Real. Not polished influencer types or soulless swipes. People looking for connection — in all its messy, adult, human forms. Some were married, open. Some solo. Some showing everything. Others hiding behind words.

That’s what he did.

He created a profile with no face. Just a black-and-white photo of his hand gripping a pen. His bio was vague: “Older. Private. Creative. Starved for honesty. If you’re about energy, not age — talk to me.”

He didn’t message anyone.

He just… existed. In that space. Quietly. Anonymously. Floating among strangers who wanted what he wanted but weren’t brave enough to say it out loud.

It wasn’t about cheating. It wasn’t about sex.

It was about touch. Voice. Being seen again.

He didn’t expect anything. Didn’t post photos. Didn’t even use his voice — too recognizable.

But that night, for the first time in weeks, he slept with one arm across the empty side of the bed and didn’t feel completely hollow.

Because somewhere out there, someone might be looking for him — not for fame, not for a name — but for the man he still was beneath it all.