She thought about Jake’s laugh. Marcus’s stupid joke about the raccoon in the trash can. The grocery store stranger’s eyes—she couldn’t even picture them anymore.
First went Jake, the musician who’d said “I’m not ready for a relationship” after seven months of acting like her boyfriend. Poof. His texts stopped arriving mid-sentence, as if reality itself had edited him out.
Her phone buzzed with twelve backlogged messages, twelve ghosts returning at once. She winced, then smiled—actually smiled, for the first time in weeks. boyfriend free
But then she noticed something strange. The app had a hidden feature: a small counter in the corner that read Freedoms granted: 12 . Below it, in fine print: Each swipe right transfers a small portion of your emotional bandwidth to the app’s servers. For research purposes.
Slowly, she opened the app settings and found the button she’d missed before: Restore all data. Including the pain. She thought about Jake’s laugh
The premise was simple: you swipe on men, but instead of matching for romance, you matched for the void they left behind. A guy who ghosted you after three perfect dates? Swipe right, and the app would ensure you never saw him at a coffee shop or mutual friend’s party again. An ex who still liked your Instagram posts from two years ago? Erased from your algorithm. A situationship who sent mixed signals? The app would filter his number out of your phone—no block, no drama, just a clean, quiet disappearance.
"Boyfriend free" was the name of the app, and Chloe had downloaded it at 2 a.m. on a Tuesday, half-laughing, half-crying into a pint of salted caramel ice cream. First went Jake, the musician who’d said “I’m
Chloe thought it was a joke. Then she tried it.