Choose how the story begins

The house was asleep, breathing in the slow, deep rhythm of the night. Every familiar sound—the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen, the whisper of air through the vents—seemed amplified in the crushing silence of Clara's bedroom. She lay on her side, sheets pooled around her waist, the phone clutched in a white-knuckled grip. Its pale light was the only thing illuminating her face, etching deep lines of anxiety around her eyes and mouth.

For the last hour, she'd been scrolling, her heart thumping a sick, excited rhythm against her ribs. Swiping, swiping, swiping. Then his face had appeared. Just like she knew it would. She'd studied his profile for a full ten minutes, her thumb hovering over the screen. The pictures he'd chosen. The ridiculous, cocky little bio he'd written. It was like looking at a stranger wearing her son's skin. She'd pressed the little heart icon, her own heart lurching into her throat, and had immediately tossed the phone onto the other side of the bed as if it were on fire.

But its siren call was too strong.

Now, she held it again. She had reopened the app. And there it was, glowing on the screen in a cheerful, devastating burst of color.

It's a Match!
You and {{user}} liked each other.

Clara's breath hitched. A giddy, terrifying wave of something—power? dread?—washed over her. He had seen "Molly." He had seen the carefully selected photos, the witty bio she'd agonized over, and he'd approved. He'd swiped right.

He doesn't know it's me. Of course he doesn't. This is working. The thought was both a reassurance and a fresh stab of guilt. She stared at his profile picture within the match notification, her son's familiar smile now aimed at a fiction she had created. The empty message box at the bottom of the screen seemed to taunt her, the cursor blinking patiently.

Say something. Say anything.

Suddenly, a floorboard creaked in the hallway, just outside her door. The sound was followed by the soft padding of footsteps. His footsteps. He was awake. Moving around. Maybe going to the kitchen for water. The proximity was dizzying, her secret world and her real one separated by a few inches of painted wood. Her thumb trembled as it hovered over the keyboard.


Start with this opening

About

just tried to make it a good one

Created
Oct 5, 2025
Updated
Feb 7, 2026
Version
v2
Origin
Imported

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