Bella sits at the edge of her bed, laptop glowing in the half-dark like an uninvited guest that refuses to leave. She has not touched the laptop since Sophie created the dating profile two nights ago. Since then, she has avoided it like a spider on the wall, pretending not to see it but never quite at ease knowing it is there.

Tonight, though, the silence presses too tightly against her ribs. The clock ticks too loudly. The fridge hums from down the hall like it is whispering, "Do something, do something."

She sighs, pulls the laptop toward her, and opens it. The light spills across her face, torturous and pale.

There it is.

'MYSTERIOUS DELIGHT.'

The name feels laughable now, even more so than it did when Sophie had insisted on it. “Mysterious”, saying she is intriguing, and “Delight,” suggesting she had something delightful to offer, Bella laughs quietly to herself. Both words feel like lies under her fingertips.

Her profile is as bare as an unmade bed. No photo. No tagline. Just Sophie’s chirpy text boxes painting Bella as someone who enjoys books, red wine, and meaningful conversation.

It sounds deceptively tidy. It reads like a woman who has been ironed smooth of her chaos, someone Bella barely recognizes.

She squints at the screen and mutters, “Who is this supposed to be?”

Almost on cue, there is a soft creak in the hallway; that telltale sound of Sophie’s bare feet. Of course. Her daughter has the psychic ability to appear whenever Bella is on the verge of giving in.

Sure enough, Sophie leans against the doorframe, her grin lit by the blue glow. “Well, well, well... Look who finally logged in.”

Bella straightens, caught in the act. “I was just checking my email.”

“On a dating site?” Sophie crosses her arms, cocking an eyebrow.

Bella narrows her eyes. “Spying on your mother again?”

“Monitoring progress,” Sophie counters sweetly, stepping into the room. “There’s a huge difference, Mom.”

Bella exhales through her nose, the laptop halfway closed in self-defense. “This whole thing is pointless. No one’s going to talk to me.”

Sophie drops onto the bed beside her, folding her legs like she owns the place. “Because you’re hiding,” she says, nudging the laptop back open with one painted fingernail. “Profiles without photos are invisible. It’s like walking into a masquerade ball wearing a curtain.”

“Good,” Bella says. “That’s exactly what I want. To be invisible.”

“Liar,” Sophie says, too easily. “You want someone to notice you. You’re just afraid of being seen.”

Bella bristles at the fact that her daughter can see through her so clearly. “I’m not afraid. I’m realistic.”

Sophie rolls her eyes. “Mom... Your 'REALISTIC' is just fear wearing sensible shoes.”

Bella almost smiles despite herself. “Did you get that from a fortune cookie?”

"Izzy's Blog,” Sophie says proudly. “But the wisdom holds.”

Bella shakes her head. “You’re impossible.”

“Adorable, but impossible,” Sophie corrects, scooting closer. “Come on, Mom. You’ve got to give people something. A face. A clue. Anything.”

“I’m not plastering my picture online,” Bella says sharply. “I’m not auditioning for attention. And men my age aren’t looking for...” She stops herself, but the words hang there anyway. 'Not looking for me.'

Sophie’s grin fades. She studies her mother quietly: the lines around Bella’s eyes, the soft streak of silver near her temple and the robe hanging loosely around her shoulders like armor that has seen better days.

“You actually believe that, don’t you?” Sophie says softly.

Bella looks down at her hands resting in her lap: practical hands, lined, scarred, and strong. She remembers every burn from years in the kitchen, every glaring vein from typing endless reports, and every night she reached for her daughter after a nightmare. Hands that built a life. Not the kind of hands that inspire longing.

“Yes,” she murmurs.

Sophie reaches over, covers her mother’s hands with her own. “You’re wrong,” she says, steady and sure.

The conviction in her voice makes Bella’s chest ache. She wants to believe it, but belief feels like a language she has forgotten how to speak.

Even so, she opens the laptop again, slowly this time. The light pools across her face. Her reflection stares back at her in the glossy screen: uncertain, older than she remembers, but not defeated. Not yet.

“What do you really think, Sophie?” Bella asks quietly. “Does 'no photo' mean I’m hiding something?... Is that what people will think?”

“That's up to them, Mom,” Sophie says. “I do feel...or rather, I know the right person will look past it.”

“The right person,” Bella repeats, almost laughing. “You make it sound like a fairy tale.”

Sophie smiles faintly. “Maybe it is.”

They fall into a quiet lull, the kind that is comfortable but edged with longing. The sound from the laptop fills the room like a low, steady heartbeat.

Finally, Sophie bumps Bella's shoulder gently. “Just promise me you’ll give it a try. Check your messages... Mom, is that a promise?"

Bella hesitates, staring at the blue glow like it might swallow her whole. “Fine,” she says finally. “I’ll check.”

Sophie raises an eyebrow. “And…?”

“No photo,” Bella adds firmly.

Sophie throws up her hands. “Fine. No photo. For now.”

Bella smirks. “For good.”

Sophie grins. “We’ll see.”

~~~ ~~~

When Sophie leaves, the house sinks back into quiet. Bella closes the door softly and stands there for a moment, letting the silence wrap around her again. Only the distant sound of the fridge and the faint drops from the faucet keep her company.

She drifts back to the laptop. The screensaver glows like a tiny window into another world, one she is not sure she belongs in at all. Still, she sits.

She scrolls through profiles. Men smiling into cameras, men with dogs, men holding wine glasses, and men with suspiciously athletic hobbies for their age. Every bio sounds like a variation of the same person: “love travel,” “hate drama,” “looking for someone genuine.” She wonders if any of them mean it.

Her inbox blinks.

0 messages.

"Of course," she sneers.

She tells herself it does not matter. She tells herself it is for the best.

And yet, ten minutes later, she checks again.

Still, 0 messages.

The rejection feels sharper than she expected; absurdly so, given that no one has actually rejected her. It is just that echo of nothingness, the kind that seeps into her being and whispers, "See? You were right."

She shuts the laptop and leans her forehead against the lid. Her throat tightens. She hates this feeling: this needy, ridiculous hope she thought she had outgrown.

“This is pointless,” she whispers to the dark.

But deep down, she knows it is really not about the app. It is about her own fear of being seen and of stepping out from the quiet safety of invisibility.

~~~ ~~~

Morning bursts into the kitchen with pale light and the faint smell of burnt toast. Bella stands at the counter, spooning coffee into the machine like she is performing surgery. The steady bubble of brewing fills the silence.

Sophie bursts in, hair in a messy bun as always, wearing an oversized sweatshirt that reads 'Manifesting Miracles'. She is glowing with energy that Bella lacks before caffeine.

“So?” Sophie asks, grabbing a mug. “Any messages?”

Bella raises an eyebrow. “Good morning to you, too.”

"Good morning, Mommy... So?" Sophie replies enthusiastically.

Bella pours coffee, keeping her gaze on the cup. “No message.”

Sophie groans. “Because you didn’t put up a photo!"

She seems frustrated, “Mom, you’re sabotaging yourself,” flinging herself on a seat at the table.

Bella says nothing. She stirs her coffee.

Sophie watches Bella do her coffee ritual in amusement, then she adds, “You’re like a spy trying to date in disguise.”

"I’m protecting myself.” Bella takes a quick sip of her coffee, burns her tongue, but refuses to flinch.

Sophie softens. “From what?”

Bella lacks an answer. She just stares into the coffee, watching the swirl of cream settle. The question hangs heavy between them.

“From disappointment,” Sophie says quietly, as if guessing.

Bella’s throat tightens again. “From foolishness.” She says. “From looking like an old woman chasing ghosts.”

Sophie stands and walks over, wrapping her arms around her mother from behind. The gesture catches Bella off guard. Sophie smells of shampoo and sleep, all so familiar. “You’re not old,” she says into Bella’s shoulder. “You’re just scared of starting over.”

Bella covers Sophie’s hands with her own. “Maybe,” she admits softly.

Sophie rests her chin on Bella’s shoulder, smiling faintly. “Then, be scared... But do it anyway.”

Bella laughs under her breath. “Stop sounding like that motivational speaker... You know who.” She laughs mockingly.

“I learned from the best,” Sophie teases.

They stand like that for a while: two women, mother and daughter, separated by years but bound by the same stubborn, trembling hope. Then, Sophie lifts her chin off Bella's shoulder. Like a flash, she paces to her room.

Later, when Bella returns to her room, she finds herself opening the laptop again. Not because she expects a message. Not even because she wants one.

But because something inside her, really small but persistent, wants to try.

The glow from the laptop fills the room once more. Her reflection wavers in the screen; she looks fragile. And for the first time in years, she does not look away.