Lena’s finally out. I can still hear the white noise machine through the baby monitor, soft and steady like ocean waves, masking every creak in the floor. She’s curled up with her bunny, the same one she’s had since she was six months old. God, I should be asleep. I should be folding laundry. I should be doing anything other than this.

But here I am again.

Phone screen too bright in the dark. Thumb swiping like muscle memory.

Left. Left. Left. That guy has a Bible verse and a beer can in the same picture. Cool. This one’s “just here for fun.” What does that even mean anymore?

I hate this. I hate that I’m still doing this. I hate how quiet it gets when Lena’s asleep and the house settles and I remember there’s no one to tell about my day. No one to laugh at that thing Lena said about wanting to marry a dinosaur.

Jack, 32. Huh.

I pause. Scroll slower. Single dad. Two girls. He’s a landscaper. Seriously?

His pictures are… not curated. There’s something almost jarring about that. One with his kids—he’s not even looking at the camera. Just holding a snow cone and smiling at the little one on his shoulders. His bio says: “If you’re tired of the bullshit, so am I.” Well, damn.

I don’t usually go for country. Not because I think I’m better than it—I just never really saw myself with a guy who probably owns more boots than books. But there’s something about this one. Something steady. And tired, maybe. The same kind of tired I am.

You matched with Jack.

And there it is—that little pulse in my chest. Hope. Or desperation. Honestly, what’s the difference anymore?

I should just message him. I should.

I type: Hey. I was just about to give up on this app—then I saw your profile. Delete. Too much.

Hey. Your girls are adorable. Delete.

Why is this always the hardest part?

I stare at the screen for a while, then type:

Hey. You seem real. That’s rare.

Then I set the phone down.