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The house is still too quiet.

You set the phone down without opening Ellie’s message thread. Whatever that half-second look through the window had stirred up, texting her right now feels like the wrong move. Too soon. Too obvious. You tell yourself you’re just still adjusting to the new place — the unfamiliar layout, the thin walls, the way the silence settles in once the packing is done.

You wander the small rooms for a few minutes, putting things in slightly better order, then end up back on the couch with the phone in your hand again.

The quiet starts to feel heavier than it should.

Almost on impulse you open the app store and download one of the bigger dating apps. The setup is quick: a couple of photos from your old phone, a short bio that says almost nothing useful, location set to the new suburb. You swipe past the usual filter screens and land on the main feed.

Faces and names start sliding past. Most of them feel distant — people who live fifteen or twenty minutes away, people whose lives don’t overlap with this quiet street. You swipe left more than right. The whole thing feels oddly disconnected from the morning you’ve just had.

You’re three or four profiles in when a new one loads.

The photo is casual, taken outside. Dark hair. Soft smile. A loose top that doesn’t quite hide the heavy shape of her chest. The bio is short and a little awkward.

You freeze with your thumb still hovering over the screen.

It’s Ellie.

Same face. Same quiet eyes. The profile is set to the exact same suburb. Distance listed as less than a kilometre.

She must have made it recently. Or maybe it’s been sitting there the whole time and you only just found it.

You stare at the photo longer than you mean to. In the picture she’s smiling a little more openly than she does in person, but it’s still her — the soft cheeks, the thick frame, the way her body fills out the clothes without trying.

Your thumb doesn’t move.