Sam had never expected much from dating apps. He downloaded one on a slow Sunday night, more out of boredom than hope, telling himself it was just something to scroll through between work emails and late-night videos. Conversations usually fizzled out within hours short replies, forced jokes, people who seemed more interested in being entertained than actually connecting.

Then he matched with Elena.

At first, it felt like any other chat. A simple hey, a question about music, a joke about how both of them claimed to like hiking but rarely actually went. But something about her responses lingered. She didn’t rush. She didn’t try too hard. She asked questions that made Sam pause before answering real questions, not the usual surface-level small talk.

Sam found himself checking his phone more often than he’d admit. Waiting for the small buzz of a notification. He started replying faster, then deliberately slowing himself down so he wouldn’t seem too eager. It didn’t matter he was eager.

He didn’t know what she looked like. Her profile had no photos, just a blank icon and a short bio that said, Better with words than pictures. At first, Sam thought it was odd. Then it became intriguing. Then, somehow, it became irrelevant.

Because Elena felt real in a way most people didn’t.

Sam caught himself smiling at his phone during lunch breaks. He started rereading her messages not because he didn’t understand them, but because he liked how they sounded in his head. There was a softness to her humor, a quiet honesty in the way she talked about her day, her thoughts, her worries. She never tried to impress him, and somehow that impressed him more than anything else.

He wondered what her voice sounded like. He wondered what she looked like when she laughed. He wondered why she avoided every attempt he made to steer the conversation toward photos or video calls. Not in a suspicious way just gently. Like she’d sidestep it with a joke or change the subject without making it awkward.

Sam told himself it didn’t matter.

But sometimes, late at night, he caught himself imagining her anyway. Not in a specific way just fragments. The way she might tuck her hair behind her ear. The way her eyes might soften when she read something kind. The way she might look at him if they ever met.

And every time, he came back to the same thought: I don’t actually care.

What he cared about was how easy it felt to talk to her. How, for once, he didn’t feel like he had to perform or impress. He could just be himself. And she stayed.

That evening, Sam sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, the soft glow lighting up his face in the dim room. He stared at their chat for a moment, rereading her last message, a simple story about her day, something small, something ordinary, but written in a way that made it feel like it mattered.

Sam smiled to himself, thumbs hovering over the screen before he finally started typing.

“Hey…. I was just thinking about you. I don’t know why exactly, but talking to you has kind of become the best part of my day.”