She wanted the dating profile to be true.

Not flattering-true.

Actually true.

So she wrote: I’m someone who overthinks.

Then stopped.

Was she?

She’d thought that for years. But the person who decided she overthought — that was just more thinking, wasn’t it, and she didn’t trust it, so maybe she was someone who distrusted herself, and she wrote that instead.

Then stopped again.

Because the one who distrusted the first sentence had seemed so sure.

That one didn’t overthink at all.

That one was decisive, almost ruthless.

Was that her?

She tried to find the one doing the writing.

The one underneath, who’d know which sentence was honest.

She got very quiet and looked.

There was looking.

She couldn’t find anyone doing it.

She wrote: I’m someone who—

and waited to see who would finish it.

The cursor blinked.

She watched it blink.

After a while she noticed she was no longer waiting for the sentence.

She was just watching the small black line appear and disappear, appear and disappear, and it was, she thought —

and then didn’t think anything,

and the not-thinking was the most her she had felt all evening,

and there was no one there to write it down.

She closed the laptop.

The profile stayed blank.

She felt, oddly, like she’d told the truth.