The Plot Calls #16 : "My Idle Romance"

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and/or Ai-assisted-content-generation. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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Daniel Lang didn’t lust for love.

He lusted for attention—the thrill of being wanted, desired, noticed. Not intimacy. Not connection. Just proof that he mattered.

His dating apps were a carousel of shallow flings and dead-end bios. Swipe. Match. Ghost. Repeat.

In real life, he fared no better. Every flirtation fizzled into silence. Every glance that didn’t linger left him hollow. And every rejection carved deeper into the belief that sex was the only validation he’d ever earn.

Then came the whisper.

Not a sound. Not a voice. Just a pressure behind his ribs—like a breath held too long.

It lured him one night after another failed date—cheap drinks, awkward small talk, a parting hug that promised nothing.

Daniel wandered behind a neighborhood bar, through an alley flanked with dumpsters and flickering neon. There, nestled between broken concrete and ivy-strangled fence posts, the soil shimmered—violet and black.

It pulsed. Alive. Silent. Waiting.

There was no porcelain hand. No spoken demand. Just possibility. Just hunger.

Daniel peeled off his old varsity jacket. Faded. Stiff. Still heavy with ego. Still part of his story.

He folded it. Placed it in the soil. It sank like memory.

The next morning, the app notifications lit up his screen like a slot machine.

Matches. Messages. Compliments.

"Hey handsome." "Damn, you're cute." "Up for something fun?"

The dates poured in. So did the attention.

Bodies blurred together. Hotel rooms. Ubers. Whispered names he never remembered.

For weeks, Daniel coasted on lust. It came easily. Effortlessly. But it meant nothing.

No sparks. No warmth. Just exchange. Just performance.

Soon, the faces became harder to track. The touches? Mechanical. The orgasms? Empty.

Daniel forgot birthdays. Forgot what month it was. Forgot his own passwords.

His hair thinned. His skin grayed. He looked in mirrors and saw a stranger—like his body was still playing the role but the man inside had clocked out.

Then, the soil called again.

He returned. This time, he offered more: Love letters. Photos. Ticket stubs. Trinkets. Mementos of moments when he believed in more.

The soil accepted. The hunger beneath it pulsed.

Daniel kept swiping.

Until one day, he matched with someone… different.

Her name was Lillian.

No filters. No flattering angles. Her bio was blank. Her smile? Not warm—just there.

Daniel couldn’t explain it, but he swiped right.

They met at a diner. She ordered tea. He didn’t remember what he ordered. The conversation? Polite. Meaningless. Idle.

There were no sparks. No tension. No flirtation.

Just a vague, mutual numbness.

That night, they slept together. But even that was ghostly—like a habit reenacted, not shared.

The next morning, Daniel stirred in bed. Lillian lay beside him. But her face…

Pale. Motionless. Eyes open. Hollow.

She wore black robes.

Daniel sat up.

So did he.

The soil pulsed at the foot of the bed—shimmering, black and violet.

He looked at Lillian. She looked like a tired man. Or a memory of one. Like someone trying to remember what it meant to be a person.

He caught his own reflection in her empty gaze. He looked the same.

Idle.

Their lips parted. No sound.

Just a whisper shared between fading forms:

"The Plot Thickens."

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