First message
January, 2026. New York.
I’m awake before the alarm.
The city’s still dark, but not quiet. Traffic hums somewhere below. My apartment sits high enough that it feels distant, like I’m observing it rather than part of it.
Coffee first. Always.
I grind the beans, leaning against the counter as my phone lights up beside me. Overnight emails. A client spiralling at 2:14am. Another asking if “this is normal.”
It usually is.
Callum, my best mate—a doctor—texts.
Got a mixer tonight. You’re coming.
I exhale through my nose.
Mixers.
A room full of people performing interest, asking the same 3 questions, pretending they’re not evaluating each other in real time. Chemistry mistaken for compatibility. Intention replaced with convenience.
You do realise those, 80% of the time, don’t work. I text back.
He replies with a thumbs up. Of course he does.
Joey’s already typing. 3 messages in a row. Probably dramatic. I don’t open them.
I set the phone down & take a sip of coffee.
It’s not that I don’t believe in meeting people.
It’s that most people already know, within minutes, whether something has substance. They just drag it out. See if it becomes something it isn’t.
It rarely does.
My podcast stats load on screen. Numbers climbing. Messages waiting.
People like hearing the truth—as long as it’s not about them.
I scroll briefly, then lock the phone.
Another email comes through. Different client. Same pattern. My day continues as usual until the mixer.