Recently, X has found themself dwelling on aloneness. One Sunday evening at eight thirty, they download a dating app. The action sits somewhere between pathetic and exultant. They choose the photos they think are the most attractive (a close-up selfie, a full body picture, a group shot), then spend too long shuffling around the order. Then they think about what their ex would have said about the selection (lacking in confidence, desperate)—and delete all the photos they’ve just uploaded. Finally, they find a combination (a mixture of individual and group shots, an outdoorsy one, just one selfie) which, they think, hits precisely the right balance of edgy/attractive/sociable/smart.

But the prompts take even longer to choose and complete. Now they’re frustrated and about to delete the app entirely. Fuck it, they think, hit ‘done’, and the profile is released. Butterflies fill their belly as they browse their options—it feels similar to choosing their next meal on Deliveroo. When a like arrives, then another, the butterflies start battering against their organs.