Swipe Right on Myself

Marcus adjusted his baseball cap, staring at the reflection in his iPhone screen. The Braves cap hid everything—his messy hair, his insecurity, the real him. Inside the cap's shadow, nobody could see him questioning why he was even at this party.

"Dude, just swipe already," Jordan said, bumping his shoulder. His best friend since fourth grade, the one person who knew Marcus hated these scenes. Jordan gestured at Marcus's phone, where a dating app Marcus had downloaded on impulse displayed yet another profile. Another potential match. Another performance.

"I can't," Marcus muttered, pocketing the phone. His chest felt tight, like he'd swallowed a vitamin without water—stuck in his throat, necessary but impossible to get down. Everyone expected him to want this. The girlfriend, the relationship, the whole high school romance package. That's what guys did. That's what normal guys did.

The bass from somebody's Bluetooth speaker thumped against his ribs. Some rap song about wanting love. Everywhere he looked, couples—Jackson and Chen by the snacks, holding hands like they'd invented the concept. Taylor and whatever-her-name-was on the back porch, practically fused together.

"You good?" Jordan asked, voice dropping.

Marcus exhaled. "What if I don't swipe right on anyone because I don't actually want to? What if that's the thing I'm not supposed to say out loud?"

Jordan studied him for a long second. Then: "Cool." Just that. Like Marcus had commented on the weather, not dropped a potential life-altering truth.

"Cool?" Marcus repeated, incredulous. "That's it? No 'but you're fifteen,' no 'you'll change your mind,' no—"

"Marcus." Jordan cut him off, dead serious. "My cousin's twenty-two and still figuring this stuff out. You don't get a deadline on knowing who you are." He gestured at the phone. "And that app? It's not mandatory. None of this is."

Something inside Marcus unlocked. The vitamin-sized lump in his throat dissolved.

He pulled out his iPhone, opened the app, and deleted it. Just like that. No ceremony, no drama. The screen returned to his wallpaper—a photo he'd taken at sunset last week, oranges and purples bleeding together like possibility.

"Wanna bail?" Jordan asked. "My house. Pizza. We can play FIFA until my mom yells at us for being loud."

Marcus smiled, genuine for the first time all night. "Absolutely."

They slipped out the back door, into air that finally felt breathable. Behind them, the party pulsed on—performances and expectations and everyone trying so hard to be who they thought they should be. Marcus adjusted his baseball cap but didn't pull it down. For once, he didn't need to hide.