Groundhog Day III

This isn’t about dating. It’s about identity theft— by circumstance, by trauma.

Feedback guidance:

You open a book at a library, this is the only part of the book you can read.
Do you want to read more?
Do you care about MC?
Do you care about Viktor?
If yes, what draw you in? If not, what prevented it?

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"Tell me about yourself."
I felt like I walked into an ambush — thrust into the spotlight, expected to say something interesting.
Like when my uncles quizzed me at random to prove to my father their kids were smarter than his.

I've never known how to answer that question.
I thought dating apps would only ask for pictures and that I could skip the rest.
Men don’t care about who I am. No one does for that matter — not past the first impression.

I blink at my phone's screen.
« Erin. 25. »
About Me — blank. No skip button.
At least the age was correct.

For some reason, giving my real name to strangers felt more vulnerable than showing my face.
Writing about me felt like undressing in public — too much exposure, too much scrutiny.
Easier to say nothing than risk sounding stupid.

I learned from a young age that "Tell me about yourself" really meant "Tell me you're not boring."

In middle school, every September, a teacher would ask us to write about our summer vacations.
The first time it happened, I had no story to tell.
My parents couldn’t afford vacations. Summer break was two months of staring at walls, waiting for everyone else to finish having fun and come back.

How do you make that sound interesting?
I wrote a few lines about the sun, ice cream, and soccer at the park.
It felt pathetic next to the wild adventures my classmates shared.

Eventually, I told my teacher I hadn’t gone on vacation — hoping she’d let me off the hook.
She smiled and said, “Make it up!”
So I did.

A few minutes later, I was describing my “beach days” in Spain.

Moments like that conditioned me to think I should always have something impressive to share, even when there's nothing remarkable.
Say something worth hearing — even if it isn’t real.

But I can’t keep pulling stories from nowhere.

Especially not now.
It was 3 a.m.
Nothing I could say would be interesting.

Besides, the exam I’d been preparing for my whole student life was in six hours.
I had a stomach ache, a rash on my right hand, and the blue light from my phone was blinding me.
I was not in the mood for existential questions.

Qu’à cela ne tienne.
There are worse things in the world than this.
Be a reasonable adult [MC name], delete the app, and get some sleep.
But being a reasonable adult is for people whose brains obey them.
Mine doesn't.
And if my brain decides to spiral about a dating app at 3 a.m., then I'm stuck here until it's done.

It's not like I'm looking for love.
I gave up on that illusion years ago.
When I blew my 25th candle, I also accepted I was not meant for it.
When you've never had a boyfriend nor been kissed for so long, it is time to understand this is not happening.

Still, I'm curious. About how it works.

Growing up, I thought it meant I was unattractive.
But people told me I was fishing for compliments.

Recently, I saw a girl I used to know — someone who looked like me — find something real on this dating app.
I’m curious to know what kind of men are in here.
That's all.

But two hundred characters feels both too much and too little.
How do you condense all your contradictions into two lines without lying?
How do you not betray who you are?

No.
I needed a story.
I needed a lie.
I needed Viktor.