Committing Lesbian Suicide.

It’s the summer of 2025. My fingers loiter above the white light of my phone. I am moments away from committing lesbian suicide.

I begin typing, trying to get it over with as quickly as possible:

Pick one that’s got to go:

“1. Cats
2. Cats
3. Cats”

An innocent Hinge prompt morphed into a confession box for my Lesbian sin.

I was surprised when, not long after, my phone pinged – it was a like from a queer woman who, classically, owned a cat. Two, actually.

Yet, Hinge insisted:

“We think you’re most compatible.”

We already knew each other in ‘real life’, having recently made the leap from coworkers to friends – was the algorithm one step ahead? I returned her like, and we joked about it over text.

Soon, we began putting this evil app’s theory to the test. A hand on my thigh in the pub, pouring wine down her throat in the park, and home-cooked breakfasts after sexless sleepovers. For a while, the closest we came to swapping saliva was through the lips of a stranger we both kissed one night. If there was a base before first base, that was ours.

I moved slower, more cautiously, than I had ever allowed myself to. My horny, rambunctious, lesbian self finally giving in to my autistic need for order and safety. Only once I had satisfied this did we start fucking.

From there, things moved quickly – meeting her mum, arguments in Paris, romance in London, and sending links to flats we dreamed of buying together (the early 30s equivalent of sending playlists).

Somewhere in all of this, I comprehended that I had been outsmarted by an algorithm. It didn’t come to me as I stared into her cosmic green eyes – no – it came during our usual morning routine: her ADHD catapulting her out of bed, my autistic burnout chaining me to it. Her cat – the boy one, usually shy – slowly pawed his way up the sheets and into my arms, as if to give me his seal of approval. I stroked him, smiling ear to ear.

This was when I knew I loved her.