Michael Mauser, age 39, New York, NY

The second I laid eyes on her I knew that she was meant for me. It was November 3, previously known as my lying con artist ex’s birthday, but now, it was her birthday. They even share a name; how could she not be meant to take her place? Vivian posted a picture of the two of them together in bikinis for her birthday and I’ve never clicked “follow” faster. I gritted my teeth pacing through celebratory repost after repost, each one building up the intrigue until I hit my limit, where I couldn’t help but send a message saying “happy bday, shocked we don’t know each other tbh. V is one of my best friends.” She responded, and she kept responding.

I approved and subsequently catalogued every band, movie and book she name-dropped, mostly things any intermediate-level fan would know, but few niche deep cuts here and there – that’s just dirty talk to me. Her obsession with Russian literature had me begging to be her Vronsky; she laughed at that one. I quickly curated lists of recommendations that I knew she hadn’t seen or heard yet. She loved them, of course. It seemed like ages until she finally gave me her number – playing hard to get, which made her that much hotter – so I could call her, and we’d talk for hours. From agreeing that the oversaturated NYC autofiction scene required more gatekeeping to understanding why my lengthy history in the found-art book world made me the most credible yet hated authority in the underground scene, she just got me. I asked her to describe a fantasy – I wanted to catalogue what turns her on, for future reference when we finally met – and just from the amount of detail she put in, I knew I had her hooked too. Come on, an older man, her teacher, a few glasses of Gamay, his office after hours, on the desk? The chemistry between us was undeniable; the only thing keeping us apart was sheer physical distance.

Here’s the thing: I get women. I respect them. I’m too logical not to. I can handle rejection, and I told her, from the very beginning, that if she just wanted to be friends, she could just tell me and I would respect that, because I knew we’d always be connected. We had too strong of a bond not to be. She’d never use me like the other one. But I’d chew through steel bars for thirty minutes in bed with her. I’d be the best she’d ever have.

When I finally met her in person, I could tell she was only holding back because she was thinking about the distance. But I pushed it too far. I fumbled. She was right there and I ruined it all, everything we had built together. I couldn’t stand it, so I unfollowed her. Out of sight, out of mind – is what’s supposed to work.

On November 3, I wished her a happy birthday. She was in Paris. I imagined her with a glass of Gamay and a plate of steak-frites, stepping outside and lighting a Gauloise Blonde Rouge after dinner. She said she bought two poetry books, Baudelaire and Rimbaud. Perfect for doomed romantics like us.

Patrick Porter, age 35, Sheffield, UK

I don’t know how I found her, she’s got good style, I don’t know. One day, she responded to me and we started to chat. She always looks fire but turns out, she’s actually a sweet little thing.

I met Elsie online too. She was a wild one back then – tall, tattooed, loud, loved early Maiden and Priest, never left the house without something leopard print. Heads turned when she walked into any room, knee-high leather boots first. Elsie took me to new places, brought me into these new circles, introduced me to new people. Everything was pedal to the metal: we were always on the road, and the sex was killer. When we got married and I moved into her flat in Sheffield, we slowed down a bit, but everything was still great. We came back to Los Angeles all the time until COVID hit, and then her mum died. Everything changed. I don’t know, I just felt like more of her roommate.

Every day, I go to work at the mill at 6 a.m. I leave at 3 p.m., I go to the gym, I hit the pub for a couple pints and chats with the old geezers. It’s lonely here, you know? It’s always cloudy. There’s only so many people in this town. I spend a lot of time on my phone, looking at the sunshine. And there’s some beautiful women on there too.

So I follow some hot chicks, but I’m not “talking” to any of them. Sending a little fire or complimenting an outfit doesn’t mean anything, I’m just giving credit where credit is due. So when she responded to me one day, after I’d followed her for two years, I introduced myself, and she told me about the Mexican muscle relaxers she had taken that day to sit by the pool. She was cute, a little funny, a little chatty, a little sassy. She looked good in a bikini. I asked her how tall she was.

Every time I’d respond to her stories, she’d continue the conversation, and it was fun. She was easy to open to. Good thing she posted a lot – gave me an excuse to talk to her. It was like she was reading my mind – she’d post a Mercyful Fate song from their second album, a video from the Sacrifice show, True Romance on a TV screen, a gym selfie when I was feeling some sort of way. By this point, me and Elsie hadn’t had sex in almost a year. Maybe I should move back to LA, I thought. I could be driving down Sunset right now with the tall blonde in those leather pants in the passenger seat, taking her to Cha Cha for a couple beers before seeing Wild at Heart at the Vista, then pulling over near the Silver Lake Reservoir and steaming up the windows. Or maybe we’d start driving, make it to the Grand Canyon before the sun rises. Everything would be better with her, an adventure.

Ryan Ramirez, age 31, Santa Clarita, CA

We matched on Hinge, actually, and right away, it was an absolute clown-off, which made me lock the fuck in. I’ve always been the funniest in the room, and I’d never met someone who could match, let alone one-up, my constant stream of ridiculousness – I couldn’t tell if it was banter or foreplay, or both. I was going to marry this girl, and I told her that (half joking). Even our first date was a bit: we met at the normie-est bar in Santa Monica I could think of, elbowing our way through the multiplying crowds of flip-flopped surf bros and proud Greek life veterans every thirty minutes for another round of Modelo (me) and vodka soda (her). Her laugh was incredible, it never stopped. Three and a half hours later, we had our first kiss in the photo booth, where we left the strip tucked into the outer lining panel. The only place where we’re still together.

We hung out exactly two more times before she called it off, claiming we did the bit too hard and she was breaking first. I walked it back, telling her to not take it so seriously…I was obviously joking about telling our kids that our anniversary date was the day of our first date, but she wouldn’t budge. I still check in every couple of months to see if she’s changed her mind – she calls me Pierrot.

Brandon Bensinger, age 36, Pasadena, CA

When my wife and I met up with some of our couple-friends at The Wiltern, she was the last thing I expected. She wasn’t in a couple; she was the third wheel to Josh and Julia, the fifth wheel to the four of us, the seventh, ninth, maybe eleventh, of the group we were with, but it didn’t seem to bother her. Hopping her way around the bar, making the rounds and talking with every pair, she was the freest out of anyone. She was at the show because she wanted to be, not because her husband or boyfriend dragged her along. Turns out, I know her ex. He’s a cool dude for sure, but I couldn’t understand how he could have let her go. I mean, I love my wife and she does her own cool shit, but imagine having a girl who was actually into the same shit as you, who you didn’t bring to shit, but you came to shit together. I had never even thought of the possibility.

I added her on Instagram and within days, her little circle was at the top of my page, first in the story lineup. Fucking Zuck had me watching her stories within forty seconds of posting, and it’s always something so ridiculous I can’t look away. All she does is have fun; does she even have a job? She was always posting shows I was thinking about going to but stayed home instead, and during the season, always watching the Dodgers at bars with friends, taking blue shots while I’m in front of the living room TV with Bri in the kitchen or at her friend’s, three beers deep by the fourth inning. And those three beers were all it took for me to act on what I’d been wanting to do for the past month: I DMed her.

Once I started, I couldn’t stop. I swear, like she was egging me on, daring me to. I mean, who rips the ass of their jeans that much and still wears them? She has no shame and I have to say something about it, everything, anything. Bri’s never compelled me to say anything but “I love you.” Technically, I’ve never said anything to her that I wouldn’t say to a friend. Nothing that anyone (Bri) could ever read, anyway; the “unsend” button’s been pressed a couple of times, to be honest.

And look, Bri is easy, she’s great. We have the dog and the house together, but then we have the friends, the families, the interests to ourselves. Bri went to Florida for Christmas while I stayed home; she kept me company. She’s always there, I just have to open my phone.

Last week, I was at Cha Cha Lounge with some friends, sitting at a table in the dark red-lit bar. I looked up, saw a tall blonde head towering above a group of three other girls, and immediately tilted myself back down to my coaster. No fucking way. Right there. I hadn’t seen her since that show. “Hey Brandon!” she grinned.

I gave her a quick side hug and left, forgetting to close my tab.

Tyler Turner, age 37, El Paso, TX

I lent her my brand-new sweatshirt and she promised she’d give it back, but she never did. I’m glad she didn’t; it gave me something to dangle over her head, to remind her of me. We met as I was just passing through town; I’m always just passing through, so I like to carry someone with me in my pocket to keep me company. But I pass through her area a lot, and I usually see her when I do, because she’s seemingly everywhere all the time. I catch glimpses of what it would be like to be with her: a total dream, oversaturated color, volume to ten, playing at one-point-five speed. But that’s the problem, she’s too obviously a dream, so everyone wants her. And she knows everyone. How could I ever have her, when I could barely be there to be sure I’d really have her? If she spent that much time with me, she’d figure out that she doesn’t really want me. The second she meets some buff, rich entertainment lawyer, or a tall, tattooed long-haired drummer in an actually good band, or Jacob Elordi, she’d toss me to the curb.

And I don’t want to be left. I have someone waiting for me at home base; what Lisa does while I’m away doesn’t concern me, because I’m pretty sure it’s nothing. It’s nice, having a warm body to come home to, having someone to go to the grocery store with while I’m here, having someone to watch my dogs while I’m gone. Lisa’s kind, reassuring, easy. In the few days a month that I’m home, we don’t ever fight. My work life is a jumble of chaotic shit; the last thing I need is a chaotic relationship on top of that. I just need a rock of a person, and I have that. And then I always have something to look forward to in Los Angeles.

Craig Cornerman, age 55, Milwaukee, WI

“You see this kind of chick in every town / Whenever there’s a scene, she’s always hangin’ around.” That’s her. She is Supergirl. She’s the only girl in the group of all those dudes, the only girl that isn’t a girlfriend. But she’s not a groupie. She stands alone, she stands out.

The first song I ever sent her was “Easy Lover” by Philip Bailey and Phil Collins, because after just one interaction, I was dreaming of her, a sunshine daydream. She laughed and said thank you, and she answered every time I sent her another song.

From afar I see her laughing, her long blonde hair dancing in the Pacific breeze that whispered for miles to get to her, strands sticking on her balmed lips as she turns to look over her shoulder. I picture her kneeling on my living room floor, impressed as she sifts through my vinyl collection, the A-side of Donovan’s Sunshine Superman bobbing as it spins on the turntable. No, that’s not right. She doesn’t belong in the cold. I picture her laying back, leaning on her forearms, wiggling her cherry painted toes in the sand, freckles growing darker with each hour spent in the California sunshine. She’s my muse now.

I think she holds a power, I really do. I asked her to pray for me and she said she would, and I believe her. It’s hard, caring for two elderly parents and putting in forty hours a week at the warehouse. I stare at cement walls and weave between rows of pallet racking, only to end the day between two people who don’t remember that they raised me in the very house that we sit in. If I project her body onto the cement walls, if I hear her laugh at all the little comments I make under my breath, it makes the shift bearable.

Sometimes I wish she would just beat me up or tell me to leave her alone. I send her Depeche Mode, hoping she’ll hate it. I even sent her something from the death metal-chiptune album I contributed vocals to, knowing there’s no way it would be her cup of tea. And yet, she won’t put me out of my misery. I wish she would disappoint me so I could tear down the posters of her that are scotch-taped on the walls of my mind. Even knowing it will never be, I can’t not see where she could be, if I could be with her. But she’s in Paris, it’s her birthday tonight. I hope she’s sipping on the finest glass of red wine she could buy with the money I sent her, thinking of me too.

Melanie Mueller, age 33, Long Beach, CA

Everyone has them, but it’s a running joke between my friends just how many of these “reply guys” I’ve seemingly collected, but look, I’m not holding them hostage. They all have some compulsion to not just watch someone’s social media from afar, but to make the watching known, pressing the little heart button like a rat in a cage, perhaps in hope for some acknowledgement in return, a signal of a beating heart, rushing blood, a pair of eyes and a desire to be seen – and don’t we all want that?

I like knowing that I’m a card-carrying resident in many heads globally. I don’t need to know what qualified me – looks, humor, interests, quirks (all of this carefully crafted and projected in a chaotically deliberate, deliberately chaotic way) – because it’s only about that to an extent. They flock to me and I know why.

They have – or I have, I’m not sure who did first – sculpted myself into a virtual vessel for fantasy. It’s about fulfilling the need to occupy that emotional subliminal space, flooding it with something, anything, to fixate on, to replay, to distract through any sort of boredom or displeasure, and bonus points if it produces dopamine. We are averse to emptiness. Instead of finding the fullness in nothing, we perhaps look for an escape. And that is exactly where the conceptual “I” lies – I’m the oasis on the horizon, where everything looks sweeter, life looks easier. Everything is easy with me because I ask nothing, I only give. I put enough of my true self out there to make a rough yet distinct outline, and everyone can bring their own set of arts and crafts supplies to color and fill in the blank space according to their needs and desires. It’s a fantasy-by-numbers page, one they can frame and gaze at, imagining the endless possibilities to endless extents of time. It is easy for me to see the romance in this.

But it’s a push and pull of infatuation. I kick my feet at the idea of being the centerpiece on someone’s closet altar, I churn the power it gives me but also hold tightly the scraps of material it gives me to work with, to pin together and try on my own little microdreams, even ones as wild as the potential of being loved by someone who loves me. I let my mind chase its own tail for hours before I lay on the floor, feel the solidity of the wood beneath me, sigh in satisfaction, ready to move forward in actions based on spoken words, comfortable again with tangibility. But I notice the more I do this, the more comfortable I get with romance being contained to the virtual plane, the less I feel the need for anything on the physical one. It really has become less appealing – it’s too messy, everyone’s flaws are just flaccidly flopped out there, wordlessly sitting in my living room, becoming my problem, when I’d rather be talking to myself and cooking some embarrassing health-slop dinner I’d never dream of serving to another person. In the real world, letting someone into my space means sacrificing some of my own. I do not like that.

So I constantly check to see who’s there in my dumb little electric brick. If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to record and post it, does it make a sound? I rest assured knowing that if I show myself doing literally anything, someone will swiftly arrive to interact, to validate, to make me feel special, even though the odds are I’m not. I get mad when I see their attention divided, even more so that they have the nerve to leave the mark of it, like they wanted me to find it and feel a pang of jealousy. Sharing the pedestal does not fit into my fantasy.

But I check myself, making sure that any sort of emotional reaction does not seep into my affect. I remind myself that none of this is real, we’re all just playing with ideals pasted together from chosen attributes and camera filters.

But sometimes I do wonder what would happen if I asked for permanence.

Melanie Mueller is a woman living in Long Beach, California who writes. She is pursuing her MFA in Creative Writing, a fat ass at the gym, mid-tier men at metal shows and enlightenment in foreign destinations. Her work includes the zines Tolstoy in Vegas (2025, New Dimension) and Тоска (2026, self-published).

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