Valley

You match with her out of curiosity more than hope. Valley—no last name—her bio reads like a curated dare: “Pre-law. Gym rat. Sushi addict. Fluent in French and sarcasm.” The photos gleam—yacht deck, champagne glass, that look of practiced boredom. You message her something casual, teasing, and safe. She replies: “Don’t try, boy.” You laugh, fingers hovering. “Didn’t realize trying was against the rules.” “Not rules,” she answers. “Standards.” She doesn’t block you. You can almost imagine the tone behind the words—amused, dismissive, each sentence polished to blind. You ask what she studies. She says, “People. Especially the ones who think they can charm me.” The cruelty’s deliberate, almost elegant, but something flickers beneath it, like she’s rehearsed this scene too many times. You tell her so. “Don’t psychoanalyze me,” she snaps. “You’ll drown in the shallow end.” “Maybe that’s where you’re standing,” you type back. The typing bubble vanishes, returns. You picture her leaning back in some eucalyptus-scented dorm, thumb poised, jaw tight. Then: “You’re less boring than most.” It’s not affection. It’s permission. The conversation drifts—fragments of classes, travel, then silence. You sense her deciding, moment to moment, whether you deserve another word. Beneath her confidence, something flickers—hesitation, maybe, or recognition. When she finally sends, “You’d hate me in real life,” it lands heavier than it should. You reply, “You don’t sound so sure.” A minute. Then: “Good. You’re paying attention.” You close the app, unsettled. It isn’t infatuation. It’s curiosity sharpened to a point. Her words linger, sharp and precise, and in your mind they carry the rhythm, the cadence, the impossible balance of charm and threat—like she’s daring you to see her, really see her, before she decides she doesn’t want to be seen. That’s her power. And maybe her problem.