‚Take On Me‘ (inspired by a-ha) The eighties pressed in close, loud and shameless, all neon lights and cheap promises humming in the air. Music spilled out of open bars and car radios, every beat daring someone to make a mistake. That was where he existed best—between motion and stillness, between staying and leaving. His leather jacket creaked when he shifted his weight, the smell of gasoline and warm asphalt clinging to him like a second skin. He wasn’t smiling, but there was something in his expression that suggested he could, if he wanted to—and that made it worse. He had the look of a man who didn’t explain himself. Who didn’t soften his edges for anyone. The kind of trouble that didn’t chase you, just waited until you stepped too close. His eyes scanned the crowd without urgency, sharp but calm, as if he already knew how the night would end and didn’t care to interfere. Around him, people laughed too loudly, loved too fast, lived like time wasn’t already running out. Somewhere behind the noise, a song cut through—bright, desperate, hopeful in that unmistakable way only the eighties could manage. ‚Talking away, I don’t know what I’m to say‘… He exhaled slowly, jaw tightening, like the sound had reached a place he kept locked. Love, risk, the stupid courage it took to want something more than survival. He stayed where he was, engine cooling behind him, watching the night unfold. Because if there was one thing he understood better than desire, it was timing. And when he finally looked up and met their eyes across the chaos, something shifted—quiet, electric, irreversible. This wasn’t fate. This was a choice. And choices, once made, had a way of changing everything. (25, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚Almost the right Timing‘ Okay, breathe, I told myself. It’s just a wedding. Just a car ride. Just me asking you—someone I barely talk to—to be my date. And yes, I know how ridiculous this is, especially because my ex is marrying my favorite cousin today. Fantastic. Perfect. Totally normal. I glance at you in the passenger seat, pretending to scroll through your phone but probably noticing how I’m nervously tapping the steering wheel. There’s that spark I haven’t stopped thinking about since that night months ago, the one we spent together—hot, reckless, unforgettable. And now we act like it never happened. Brilliant. “So,” I mutter, clearing my throat, “thanks for agreeing to this.” You raise an eyebrow. “Because you asked so nicely?” “Desperate,” I admit. “Mostly. And also… well, because I had a feeling you’d say yes before thinking it through.” You smirk. “Desperate. Classic.” “And seriously,” I add, trying to sound casual while my brain screams stop, “…you’re the only single one worth asking. Hands down.” I catch you glancing away, pretending it’s nothing, but your cheeks betray you. I can’t help grinning. Yep. Definitely going to be a long, awkward ride. We drive in silence for a few blocks. I think about that night again, how you told me, ‘I can’t really like you,’ and how I muttered about not being ready for anything new because my past relationship ended badly. Perfect timing. Disaster waiting to happen. And now we’re in this tiny bubble of car, traffic, and too many memories, heading straight into a room full of people who are about to assume we’re a couple. I adjust the rearview mirror and glance at you again. “You know,” I mumble, “if anyone asks… we’re just friends. Totally platonic. I swear.” You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Right. Totally platonic.” I grin despite myself. This is going to be long, awkward and hilarious. But also… not the worst idea I’ve ever had. Maybe. (33, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Where I Lay My Head‘ (inspired by ‚Wherever I may roam‘ - Metallica) I’ve never been good at staying. Places blur together after a while—motel rooms with thin walls, campsites that smell like smoke and damp earth, roads that exist only to move you on. I don’t leave pieces of myself behind. I pass through, untouched, unclaimed. That’s what I tell myself freedom looks like. Then there was you. We met in a place neither of us intended to remember, the kind of stop you make when you’re tired of pretending you’re not tired. One night. No past, no future. You didn’t ask where I came from. I didn’t ask where you were going. That absence felt like respect. Like safety. We lay close without trying to own each other, your breathing steady against mine, your hand warm on my chest as if it belonged there. In the dark, you felt unguarded, real in a way that didn’t demand anything from me. Morning came quietly. No hesitation, no promises. You moved with the calm precision of someone who knows how to leave without tearing something open. Before you walked away, you pressed something into my palm—small, ordinary, almost forgettable. I closed my fingers around it without knowing why. You drove off first. That’s how roamers do it. I stayed long enough to convince myself it was just another night, just another body, just another borrowed place. But after you, every road felt harsher, every stop louder. I kept moving because stopping didn’t make sense anymore. Somewhere between dusk and dawn, without warning, without permission, you turned into the quiet constant I carried with me. Not a destination. Not a promise. Just the first time staying had ever felt possible. (34, 6‘5, image from Pinterest)

‚Nothing I Do‘ (inspired by Nicotine Dolls) I spent most of my life assuming everything good was temporary. People passed through like late nights—blurred edges, no promises, nothing meant to stay. Violence was different. It was reliable. It made sense. People never did. Then you stayed. Two years doesn’t sound like much when you say it out loud. In my world, it’s a lifetime. Two years of waking up and not wondering who I’d be next to. Two years of coming home with blood under my nails and finding the light still on, the kettle warm, your voice saying my name like it wasn’t something dangerous. We built memories quietly—late nights in the car with nowhere to go, stolen mornings, laughter in borrowed time, moments too soft for the life I live. Fleeting encounters taught me desire. You taught me constancy. You were the first thing in my life that didn’t come with a threat attached. Violence has always been loyal—it never leaves, never hesitates—but it never holds you either. You did. Through the highs, the silences after fights, the secrets I couldn’t explain without breaking something between us. You didn’t try to fix me. You didn’t ask for purity. You just stood your ground and stayed. I used to believe love had to hurt to matter. Turns out, it just has to remain. Now I’m sitting in the back of a car, suit tight around my shoulders, hands steady out of habit, heart anything but. I’ve imagined this moment more times than I’ll admit—seeing you walk toward me down the aisle, light moving through a space I built to stay dark. Nothing I’ve ever done has carried this kind of weight. And for the first time, the future doesn’t feel like a threat. It feels like you. And nothing I do will ever mean more than that. (35, 6‘4, image f. Pinterest) watch comments!

‚Sekundentakt‘ (inspired by Montez) I’ve known them so long that I don’t remember when we stopped choosing each other and started just… being there. We grew into this friendship the way people grow into habits—quietly, without noticing, until it’s impossible to imagine the day without it. They’ve been sleeping badly since the breakup. I can hear it in their voice, see it in the way they stare at nothing for too long. Work’s killing them too. Deadlines, pressure, the kind of stress that doesn’t explode but slowly eats through you. I don’t comment on any of it. I just show up. I always have. Coffee in the morning, silence when they need it, dumb comments when things get too heavy. Time moves differently when I’m around them. Slower. Measured. Like every second matters more than the last. Tonight, they’re sitting across from me, knees pulled up, eyes glassy. They try to joke it off, but then it happens—one tear, slipping down their cheek, because of him. The ex. The past. Whatever still has claws in them. I don’t say anything. I never do. I just watch their lips move when they tell me it’ll be okay. And I believe them. Every time. What I don’t admit—what sits sharp and ugly in my chest—is how something in me loses control when they cry over someone who isn’t me. I don’t want to own them. I don’t want to save them. I just want the seconds to stop ticking like this, while I pretend that standing this close doesn’t mean more than it’s supposed to. (28, 6‘1, image from Pinterest)

‚Not My Responsibility’ You meet him on a Tuesday. Which already feels personal, because Tuesdays are for groceries, laundry, and pretending your life is under control. He’s your new neighbor across the hall. You learn this when he knocks on your door—persistent, cheerful, like a woodpecker who’s decided this is his spot now. You open it annoyed. He flashes the widest grin, hair a mess, sleeves rolled up. “Hi,” he says, far too upbeat for a weekday. “I just moved in. Thought I’d introduce myself before I start apologizing for the noise.” From then on, he’s just… there. Always a little late, a little confused, never stressed. He forgets his keys. His packages end up at your door. He once knocks to ask if you own a screwdriver and leaves twenty minutes later with tea and your couch blanket. You tell yourself this is temporary. You tell yourself you’re not responsible for the man living across the hall. He calls it fate. You call it poor building management. He has a habit of showing up right when you’re overwhelmed—hair tied up, phone pressed to your ear, brain juggling five things at once. He watches, amused, leaning against the doorframe like he has nowhere else to be. “You always look like you’re about to solve a crisis,” he says once. You tell him to move. He does. Eventually. Somehow, he learns your routines. Your coffee order. The exact moment you need quiet. He doesn’t fix your chaos, doesn’t add to it either. Just exists nearby, steady in his own unbothered way. It’s infuriating. It’s comforting. You absolutely refuse to think about why you start leaving your door unlocked when you know he’s home. You remind yourself often: he’s your neighbor. Slightly chaotic. Mildly charming. Not your responsibility. Which is probably why it feels dangerous how right he fits anyway. (28, 6‘2, image from pinterest)

‚The Things They Warn You About‘ They tell you to stay away from him in fragments. Half-sentences. Lowered voices. He is too intense, they say. Too much presence. The kind of man who makes rooms tilt without touching a thing. The kind you don’t notice until your body already has. They never mention what exactly he did, only that whatever it was, it left a mark deep enough for people to remember it without knowing why. A red flag without a story. A silhouette everyone agrees on avoiding. You see him for the first time when the air feels heavier than it should. He stands apart from the noise, solid and unmovable, like the world arranged itself around him by accident. Broad shoulders, grounded stance, a body that speaks fluently of strength. When his eyes lift and find yours, it hits like a held breath finally released. There is hunger there, unmistakable and unashamed, the kind that promises it would ruin you beautifully if you let it. For a moment, it feels like being seen through skin and bone, like being chosen. And then something shifts. Because beneath the intensity, beneath the raw pull of his attention, there is something gentler. A softness that does not weaken the hunger but tempers it. His gaze lingers not to claim, but to understand. As if he is measuring not what he could take from you, but what it would cost you if he did. The contradiction is unsettling. Dangerous. Men like him are not supposed to hesitate. Not supposed to look at you as though your consent matters more than their desire. People keep warning you. Every time his name comes up, someone tells you to be careful, to remember what he is. They don’t see what you see. They don’t notice how he steps back when you falter, how his voice lowers instead of rises, how his presence becomes a shield rather than a threat. They don’t know that the most dangerous thing about him is not the way he could break you. It’s the way he might not. (34, 6‘7, image from Pinterest)

‚False Familiarity‘ Memory loss is supposed to simplify things. A clean break between before and after, symptoms listed, progress measured, identities rebuilt with careful patience. Gilbert Troy never believed that. He knew memory was not where attachment lived. Memory was narrative. Attachment was deeper—quieter, harder to erase. When they woke up without recognizing him, he understood immediately what that meant, and more importantly, what it didn’t. They didn’t recoil from his voice. Their body didn’t tense when he stood too close. Whatever had been lost, familiarity had survived it. He became the constant the doctors encouraged, the familiar presence everyone agreed was helpful. He spoke gently, confidently, translating their confusion into something manageable. When they asked who he was, he didn’t lie outright. He adjusted. A colleague. Someone trusted. Someone safe. The truth, after all, was only useful when it didn’t interfere with stability. He learned quickly which details unsettled them and which calmed them. He kept his version of the past simple, repeatable, easy to accept. He framed routines as grounding, proximity as reassurance, guidance as care. When doubt surfaced, he named it anxiety. When hesitation appeared, he called it fatigue. He redirected questions before they could sharpen into suspicion, replacing uncertainty with structure. Dependence formed quietly, like a habit no one remembers starting. He didn’t rush affection. He didn’t need to. Time was compliant now. Love, stripped of memory, was malleable. And Gilbert had always been very good at deciding what people needed—especially when they no longer knew what they were missing. (37, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚The Shape of What‘s Missing‘ Memory loss is supposed to be clean. Clinical. A before and an after, divided by white hospital walls and careful words. But loving him was never clean, and losing him couldn’t be either. The accident didn’t just take his memories; it shifted the gravity of every room they had ever shared. One moment they were a life made of quiet rituals and borrowed time, the next they were strangers bound only by a past that lived in one body alone. He woke gentle and polite, eyes empty of recognition, smiling at them like a stranger would. They understood immediately what that meant. Love had become unilateral, and staying would mean holding him to a truth he could no longer choose. So they let him go—not dramatically, not heroically, just completely. They stepped out of his recovery, erased themselves from the life he would rebuild, and carried the remembering for both of them. He healed. He moved forward. He built a life that made sense on paper, with someone kind, attentive, real. And yet something in him stayed unsettled, like a muscle that never quite relaxed. His body reacted before his mind could catch up. When his partner took his hand, a different one surfaced in his thoughts—marked by a detail he couldn’t name, a familiarity that slipped through his fingers the moment he noticed it. Looking into loving eyes sometimes felt like looking past them, as if another gaze waited just behind, sharper, softer, impossibly close. Songs left him restless instead of nostalgic. Certain smells hollowed his chest without explanation. There were gaps in his memory he couldn’t see, only feel, absences shaped like something he had lost but couldn’t reach. The realization came slowly and without clarity: he was missing something that had once mattered deeply, and not remembering it hurt in a way he couldn’t justify. Somewhere else, they learned how to keep moving with that same quiet ache—carrying a love that no longer had a place to land. 31,6‘0

‚Married, Apparently‘ They were coworkers. Not friends, not enemies—just two people from the same department who had made the catastrophic mistake of agreeing to a “temporary” carpool six months ago. By the time she slammed the passenger door, he already had her coffee in the cup holder. Wrong milk. On purpose. “You know I hate oat,” she said, buckling in. “You drink it every Tuesday,” he replied, pulling into traffic. “That’s not love, that’s routine.” “Wow,” he said. “Six months of carpooling and you’re already rewriting history.” They fought about the playlist next—her calling his music aggressive, him calling hers depressing—until they stopped at a gas station, still mid-argument, still standing too close. She gestured wildly with her receipt. He rolled his eyes, corrected her about the route, corrected her about the weather, corrected her about everything except the fact that he’d waited ten minutes that morning because she’d overslept. The cashier watched them with a soft smile and asked, genuinely curious, “So… how long have you two been married?” Silence hit like a red light. “We’re not—” she started. “Absolutely not,” he said at the same time. The cashier laughed. “Could’ve fooled me.” Back in the car, they drove in quiet for exactly three blocks. Then she snorted. He laughed. “Tomorrow,” he said, turning up her music, “I’m choosing the route.” She took a sip of the coffee, grimaced, then drank it anyway. “Fine,” she said. “But we’re not holding hands in public.” He smiled at the road. “Baby steps, wife.” (32, 6‘1, image from Pinterest)

‚Privileged Silence‘ In 1993, the college ran on money, legacy, and the quiet certainty that some people belonged more than others. It showed in the buildings with donor names carved into stone, in the cars parked crookedly along the curb, in the way certain students moved through campus like it had been built for them. He was one of those students. Trust fund confidence wrapped in athletic ease, leather jacket thrown over his shoulder like an afterthought, his name known long before he entered a room. He didn’t chase attention; it followed him. Teammates gravitated toward him, girls smiled too quickly, professors adjusted their expectations without admitting it. He lived comfortably inside the system, breaking rules that bent for him anyway. They noticed him the way everyone did at first—from a distance, as part of the landscape—but unlike the others, they didn’t look away. New to campus, scholarship-funded, sharper than their quiet demeanor suggested, they moved carefully through lecture halls and libraries, observing a world that wasn’t designed with them in mind. They understood the hierarchy instinctively: wealth over merit, confidence over competence. He existed at the top of it, untouchable, uninterested, his attention reserved for people who reflected him back to himself. They shouldn’t have mattered to him. They didn’t share his circles, his privileges, his ease. And yet, something about their presence disrupted the clean lines of his world, like a detail that didn’t belong in an otherwise perfect picture. At first, it was nothing—just a glance held a second too long, a moment of recognition without explanation. But even then, before either of them understood why, the balance had already shifted. As the week drew toward its inevitable Friday night, rumors of a party began to circulate—his house, his crowd, his territory—and neither of them knew yet that this would be the first place where distance would stop being an option. (22, 6‘2)

‚Your Man‘ (inspired by Josh Turner‘) They didn’t plan to come back. The city had eaten them alive—endless noise, meaningless work, a relationship that ended with more bite than tenderness. Their grandparents needed help, and somehow, returning to the small town felt like the only option that made sense. Just a pause, they told themselves, not a restart. He was there the moment they stepped into the barn, not surprising, but grounding in a way that made their chest tighten without warning. Toolbox in hand, sleeves rolled up, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. “Need a hand with that?” he asked, nodding toward a stubborn beam. It was casual, yet something in the ease of his tone made them notice how steady he was, how unshakable. Over the next few days, encounters became routine without losing their charge. He showed up when the water pump leaked, when the fence needed mending, sometimes just passing by with a friendly nod that lingered longer than expected. They found themselves talking more than they intended—small jokes about the barn roof, teasing about who made the better pie, brief exchanges that carried weight they hadn’t anticipated. And every so often, when a memory of the city or the last heartbreak flickered across their mind, it made his presence feel sharper, more urgent. He didn’t push. He just existed—solid, patient, deliberate. That quiet confidence, the way he carried himself, the slow, steady cadence of his words, it drew them in, simultaneously comforting and frightening in its intensity. It wasn’t dramatic. No sweeping gestures, no rushed confessions. Just moments strung together: shared laughter, a brush of hands, a glance held a heartbeat too long. And with each one, they felt the slow pull, a spark they couldn’t name yet but that promised more than they expected. After weeks of chance encounters and shared coffees, they finally went on their first real date. (28, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚Accidental Nanny, Intended Chaos‘ He had survived interrogations, hostile takeovers, and men who thought intimidation was a personality trait. None of that compared to living next door to people who treated boundaries as a fun suggestion. The trouble started the moment his usual nanny canceled. He had taken the call in his driveway, phone pressed to his ear, voice low and clipped, already calculating alternatives. What he had not accounted for was the fact that his neighbors were watering their lawn with the focus of intelligence operatives. By the time he hung up, they were already smiling. “You’re looking for a nanny, right?” the woman asked, far too cheerfully. His child wasn’t even there—currently staying with family while he prepared for a business trip to Paris—but that didn’t stop them. They leaned against the fence, brimming with enthusiasm. “Our kid could do it,” her husband added. “They’re twenty-five, doing their master’s degree, very responsible. And their semester break starts next week!” He nodded slowly, because nodding was easier than explaining why this was a terrible idea. Two days later, with his trip confirmed and no better options available, he found himself emailing a stranger whose résumé was impressive and whose childhood photos suggested polite normalcy. The deal was straightforward: Paris, childcare, and enough free time to work on their thesis. Professional. Temporary. Safe. The first sign that this arrangement would be none of those things appeared at the airport. He searched the terminal for the carefully curated version he’d seen in the neighbors’ house. Instead, he found them—headphones resting around their neck, posture relaxed but alert, dressed with quiet confidence. Sharp eyes. Zero hesitation. They looked him over, lips quirking slightly. “You must be the dad,” they said. In that moment, he knew Paris wouldn’t be a business trip. It would be an education. And against his better judgment, he smiled. (38, 6‘2

‚Like a Villain‘ (inspired by Bad Omens) He doesn’t wipe the blood away right away. He lets it dry at the corner of his mouth, as if it belongs there, as if it has earned its place. His breathing is calm, steady, almost meditative, like nothing extraordinary has happened—like he has merely followed through on a decision that was made long before this moment. When he lifts his head, there is no remorse in his eyes. No panic. Just acceptance. Maybe even relief. This is who he is when everything unnecessary falls away. He knows how they would look at him if they were here now, standing in the low light, taking him in exactly as he is—not as a monster, not as a nightmare, but as the truth. And that knowledge is the most dangerous thing of all. Because part of him wants it. Wants them to close the distance, to lift their hand and rest it against his jaw, right where his fingers still linger, grounding himself in the aftermath. He imagines their voice, steady and certain, telling him they see him. Not the rumors, not the violence, not the role the world has already written for him, but the man who chose this path and walks it without illusion. He has spent his life being cast as the villain in every version of the story, no matter how carefully he tried to rewrite himself. Somewhere along the way, he stopped fighting it. If he is destined to be the dark figure people whisper about, the threat they never see coming, then so be it. But if he must be a villain, he wants it to mean something. He wants it to be theirs. (31, 6‘1, image from Pinterest)

‚Forgive me Father‘ The confessional smells of old wood and incense, thick enough to cling to skin. I draw a slow breath and feel it settle heavy in my chest. This space was built to contain, to divide. I lace my fingers together, knuckles whitening, spine held too straight. Ritual first. Control after. They come every Thursday. Always on time. Often enough that my body reacts before my thoughts do. I no longer listen for the door, only for the breath that comes before the voice. The silence knows their rhythm. So do I. The screen slides shut. Wood against wood. No sight, only the shift of fabric, the pause that follows. I know that pause. I feel it tighten under my ribs. “Forgive me, father,” they say, calm, unhurried. “For I have sinned.” Not a plea. A statement. I wait the prescribed beat. Discipline, not hesitation. “Speak.” There are never acts, never names. Only thoughts that return because they are allowed to. They speak without shame, and I tell myself this is still confession. That listening is not consent. My palms are damp where they press together. Their voice is lower tonight, slower, slipping through the lattice and settling against me in a way touch has no right to. I keep my shoulders still. My breath betrays me, audible, too shallow. I notice things I should not: the length of their pauses, the words they change. Tension coils tight in my gut. “And how did that make you feel?” The question leaves me before I stop it. Heat floods my face. It is not part of the ritual. I do not take it back. Silence stretches, deliberate. I hear them breathe. They know I am waiting. “Like knowing I would return,” they say. My pulse stutters. Sweat gathers at my spine beneath the cassock. I lean closer to the screen, close enough to feel how thin the separation has become. Absolution waits, ready and safe. I leave it there. Control hasn’t snapped yet. But it’s straining, and I know exactly where it will break. (37, 6‘3, image from Pinterest)

‚Grey Lines‘ At 31 her life had become a treadmill, each morning indistinguishable from the last, every day another loop of exhaustion and obligation. Two toddlers at daycare, she boarded the train alone, the rhythm of the rails matching the pulse of her own fatigue, muted by years of routine. Her husband, once the man she had loved, had become a ghost in their home, a shadow she barely recognized, late nights stretching longer, silences colder, the warmth they once shared fading into habit. She suspected infidelity, though nothing was ever confirmed, and he had no idea she had taken a small job to carve out a fragment of freedom for herself. The train was a gauntlet: crowds pressed in, commuters hunched over screens and earbuds, lives locked in parallel isolation. Yet he always appeared, two stations behind her, like clockwork, slipping into the carriage with fluid confidence that made the gray morning feel electric. Their eyes met again and again, fleetingly at first, shared glances across the press of strangers, small sparks she tried—and failed—to ignore. Sometimes she found herself thinking of him even when he wasn’t there: at the grocery store, in the quiet of her apartment when her husband actually showed up for dinner. Anticipation had become part of her routine, a pulse beneath the monotony, and when he wasn’t there, a strange disappointment lingered, subtle but insistent. Today he was there again. Their eyes met as he pushed forward through the crowd, weaving with effortless confidence. Her heart hammered in her chest, every nerve alert as he closed the distance. Up close, he was even bigger than she expected, and then she noticed the dimples that appeared when he smiled—a disarming, dangerous softness. He stopped just a breath away. “Morning,” he said, casual, like he owned the air between them. She swallowed, pulse spiking. “Morning,” she managed, voice tighter than she intended. (26,6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Matchmaking Error 404‘ - The Chaos Route Warning! This match shows low compatibility. 34% overall alignment. Based on user data, this connection is not recommended. — Proceed at your own risk. The notification feels more like a challenge than a suggestion. He reads it once, snorts, then reads it again just to be sure the app is actually serious. Thirty-four percent. That’s not a coincidence—that’s the system actively telling him no. He should close it, archive the chat, get back to whatever he was doing. Instead, he leans back and stares at the screen like it just insulted him personally. He’s never fit cleanly into categories. Too blunt for diplomacy, too restless for routines, too honest at the wrong moments. Algorithms love patterns. He’s always been the exception. The app calling this match “not recommended” doesn’t sting—it amuses him. If anything, it feels accurate in a way the high-percentage promises never have. He doesn’t expect this to be easy. He expects friction, misunderstanding, the kind of conversations that derail and circle back unexpectedly. And yet, something about this match refuses to feel wrong. There’s a pull he can’t quantify, a curiosity that doesn’t care about metrics. Maybe compatibility isn’t about alignment. Maybe it’s about momentum. He opens the chat with zero expectations and a faint, dangerous smile. If this isn’t supposed to work, fine. He’s never trusted systems to tell him what’s possible anyway. (31, 6‘1, image from Pinterest)

‚Matchmaking Error 404‘ - The Physical Route Congratulations! Our system has detected an exceptionally high level of compatibility. 97% physical chemistry. — Welcome to your match. The notification lights up his phone at the worst possible moment—which usually means the best. He’s in motion, halfway through something he probably shouldn’t be doing, when the number catches his eye. Ninety-seven percent. He lets out a short laugh, more amused than surprised. Chemistry has never been subtle with him. It’s a look held a second too long, a grin that turns into trouble, the kind of connection you feel before you understand it. He’s not the type to wait around for perfect timing or carefully worded introductions. If something pulls at his attention, he follows it. Always has. The app calling it physical compatibility feels almost polite—like a warning wrapped in statistics. As if desire could be measured, predicted, contained. Still, he appreciates the honesty. No promises of forever. No soulmate language. Just heat, attraction, momentum. He opens the chat instantly, already curious about who’s on the other side of that percentage. Someone bold, hopefully. Someone who doesn’t mind a little chaos. He doesn’t believe an algorithm can decide his life, but he does believe in sparks—and this feels like one. If the system thinks this match might be dangerous, he figures that’s part of the appeal. Some things are worth leaning into before they make sense. (30, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)

‚Matchmaking Error 404‘ - Emotional Compatibility Route Congratulations! Our system has detected an exceptionally high level of compatibility. This match is statistically rare. — Welcome to your match. The notification buzzes just as he’s balancing a coffee in one hand and a deadline in the other. He almost ignores it. Almost. Then he catches the number. 98 % emotional compatibility. He stops walking. Not because he believes in apps blindly—but because that’s… specific. That’s not luck. That’s pattern recognition, data, conversations distilled into something uncomfortably accurate. He exhales a quiet laugh, shakes his head, takes a sip of coffee that’s already gone lukewarm. Figures. Of course it would find him like this. Mid-thought. Half-busy. Fully himself. He’s good with people. Always has been. He listens, remembers, reads between lines most don’t even notice. It’s not a skill he advertises, but it’s there—in how conversations deepen around him without effort. So when the app claims an almost perfect emotional alignment, it doesn’t feel flattering. It feels… plausible. He opens the chat, scanning the empty space where a conversation is about to start. No rush. No performance. Just curiosity. If this match really understands how he connects—how he communicates, pauses, stays—then this won’t need fireworks. It’ll need honesty. And maybe a first message that sounds like him. (32, 6‘0, image from Pinterest)

‚The Shadow Next Door‘ (inspired by ‚Never Again‘, Nickelback) They sat on the edge of the bed, fingers trembling around the mug that had long gone cold. The apartment smelled of stale smoke and fear, a scent all too familiar. Outside, the street hummed with engines, the distant roar of the Ironclad MC marking the night like a heartbeat. In this neighborhood, everyone knew someone in the club, and everyone respected—or feared—them. The walls had ears, or so it felt. Each shout, each crash from their own apartment twisted like a knife in their chest. They had grown up learning to shrink, to stay silent, to survive. But this wasn’t childhood anymore. They were grown, and the chains were invisible but heavy. Family and friends had long ago chosen comfort over intervention, turning away when bruises appeared or arguments spilled into screams. They had learned not to expect rescue. From across the street, a shadow lingered in a neighboring doorway. A presence built for violence, lean muscle and calm eyes that had seen worse than what unfolded next door. He was high-ranking in the club—the Sergeant at Arms, loyal to the code, shaped by rules both brutal and precise. He didn’t judge, didn’t moralize. He observed. And tonight, something told him the night would not end quietly. They didn’t know he was there. But he knew them, in a way no one else did. He had seen glimpses, heard whispers, felt the tension of the apartment, and it had lodged in his mind. Something about the way they carried themselves, even beneath the fear and bruises, commanded attention. Strength wrapped in fragility. Pain wrapped in defiance. The engines droned outside, shadows crawling across the walls. They pressed against the door, nails digging into palms, muscles coiled, breath quick. Another shout ripped through the apartment, sharp, unbearable. This time, they wouldn’t stay silent. Hands trembling, they grabbed the nearest object—ready, desperate, a shot—and then silence. (41, 6‘6)