Chapter 1

At eighteen, you’re technically an adult, but it doesn’t feel like it. Not really. You’re old enough to make your own choices, but young enough that everyone still thinks they get a vote. That weird in‑between space — that’s where I live.

My name is Lola. I’m eighteen, a senior in high school, and I go to one of those continuation schools people whisper about like it’s a punishment. It’s not. It’s just where you end up when life gets messy or school gets overwhelming. Honestly, it’s quieter than a regular high school, and I like that.

I live in Los Angeles with my dad. My older siblings are basically adults living their own lives — working, dating, coming home whenever. I’m the last one still here, the one who hasn’t figured out what comes next.

It was April 12th, late afternoon, and I was sprawled on the couch with my laptop open, half‑playing a game; I wasn’t even into anymore. I kept clicking through menus, waiting for something to feel interesting. Nothing did. So, I closed it and switched to Netflix, hoping a show would distract me.

It didn’t.

That restless feeling — the one that makes you want something new, something different — kept poking at me. And before I could talk myself out of it, I grabbed my phone and downloaded Tinder.

I’ve been curious about dating apps for a while. When I was seventeen, I lied about my age to peek into that world — nothing dramatic, just the kind of dumb, harmless curiosity teenagers have. Now that I’m eighteen, I don’t have to lie anymore, but the memory still makes me roll my eyes at myself.

I set up my profile for real this time. I picked a picture where I didn’t look like a child. Wrote a short bio that didn’t sound desperate or cringe. Hit save.

I’d watched enough YouTube story times to know Tinder could be weird, chaotic, or straight‑up dangerous. But curiosity is a powerful thing. I wanted to see what would happen — not the horror stories, just… something different from the same hallway crushes and predictable high‑schoolboys.

I started swiping. Profiles blurred together — gym selfies, car photos, guys holding fish for some reason. I kept my distance settings close. I wasn’t trying to meet someone across the state. After a while, I got a few matches. I sent a couple of “hey” messages, the kind you send when you’re not sure what you’re doing, but you’re doing it anyway.

Eventually I put my phone down and went about my night. When I checked again, a few guys responded. Nothing crazy. Just normal conversation. It was enough to make me smile.

By the time I went to bed, it was almost midnight. My alarm dragged me out of sleep at 7:30 a.m., and I did the usual morning routine — clothes, hair, backpack, out the door. School was the same as always: quiet classrooms, teachers who knew everyone by name, the soft hum of people trying to get their lives back on track.

At lunch, I sat with my friends at our usual table. We’re not the “girly” type people assume we are. We talk about random stuff — music, games, whatever drama we’re avoiding. I told them about Tinder, and they gave me the predictable warnings. Be careful. Don’t trust anyone. Meet in public. I nodded because they weren’t wrong.

While we talked, I checked my phone. A new message. His name was Chase — eighteen, lived in Chatsworth, not too far. His profile didn’t scream “serial killer,” which is always a plus. We started talking, and it felt… easy. Normal. Like he was interested, not just bored.

After school, I took the bus home, unlocked the front door, and collapsed onto the couch. Netflix played in the background while I checked my messages again. Chase replied. We talked for a while, and then I asked if he wanted to meet up this weekend. He said yes.

We picked the mall — public, crowded, and safe. I wasn’t stupid.

Later, my sister Jasmine came home. She’s older, more experienced, and has that protective big‑sister energy even when she pretends; she doesn’t. I told her about meeting Chase, and she gave me the same warning my friends did, but with more edge.

“If anything feels off, text me,” she said. “I’ll come get you.”

I promised I would.

Saturday came faster than I expected. I got ready, texted Chase that I was on my way, and headed out. My stomach was doing that nervous‑excited flip the whole ride there.

When I reached the mall entrance, my phone buzzed.

I’m here.

I looked up — and there he was. Tall, brunette, walking toward me with that half‑smile people get when they’re trying to look confident but they’re just as nervous as you are.

“Hi,” he said.

And just like that, the whole thing became real.