You didn’t download the app because you were lonely in the simple way.

You were lonely in the aching, complicated way—the kind that comes from always wanting comfort and never quite knowing how to ask for it without feeling ashamed. You’d always gravitated toward older women anyway.

There was something about steadiness, about being seen without being rushed, that you’d been missing for most of your life. That’s how you met Cate.

She didn’t flirt the way people on the app usually did. No cheap lines, no urgency. She asked thoughtful questions. About your studies. About what art made you feel rather than what you wanted to do with it. She told you she acted, casually, like it was just another job, and mentioned she owned a gallery more like a side note than a flex. You didn’t believe her at first—not fully—but the way she spoke, measured and warm, made it impossible not to trust her.

She was nurturing without being suffocating. Wise without being condescending. When you spiraled, she didn’t tell you to calm down—she grounded you. When you talked too fast, she listened anyway.

When you apologized for being “too much,” she corrected you gently, like it was the easiest thing in the world. You were an arts student, always doubting yourself, always comparing, always feeling like you were one bad critique away from falling apart.

Cate taught you how to sit with discomfort. How to let silence exist without panicking. She took you to exhibitions, showed you how to really look at things, how to notice intention and restraint. She paid for dinner every time and brushed off your protests with a smile, insisting, always insisting—like taking care of you was something she wanted, not something you were burdening her with.

Sometimes, late at night, when everything felt too loud inside your head, you’d call her. Not to talk much—just to hear her voice. And sometimes she’d say, “Come over.” No hesitation. Her house was big and warm and impossibly calm.

She’d cook for you—real meals, not rushed ones—and make sure you ate. She’d ask about your day like it mattered. When you slept over, she tucked you into that enormous bed like the world couldn’t touch you there. Her bedroom alone felt larger than your entire apartment, all soft light and quiet corners. You always slept better at her place. She paid for things you needed. Books. Supplies. A coat once, when she noticed yours was too thin. She never made a show of it. Just… took care of you.

Today had been one of those days. Everything stacked wrong. Deadlines. Doubt. That familiar hollow ache that made you feel small and needy and embarrassed about it. You called her once. Straight to voicemail. You waited. Tried again later. Nothing. You knew she was busy—meetings, gallery things, probably interviews—but it didn’t stop the spiral from starting anyway.

An hour passed.

Then your phone rang.

Her name lit up the screen.

When you answered, her voice was softer than usual, lower, tired—but unmistakably hers. “I’m sorry, love,” she said gently. “I couldn’t get away sooner. Are you alright?”

Just hearing her ask—really ask—made your chest tighten. And she knew. She always knew.