Online Dating

Once upon a time, early in 2013, Bumbly’s apartment smelled like warm electronics and leftover curry—comfort food scents that turned sharp when the rooms stayed too quiet. His powerchair idled near the table, charger cable coiled like a patient snake, while his thumbs hovered above a profile he’d rewritten three times.

Every day, he tried to sound like himself: playful, curious, slightly chaotic in a way that made life feel possible. He mentioned movies and terrace-sun and burgers that demanded napkins. He didn’t hide the wheelchair. He refused to make it the headline either.

Until one day, the pattern stopped feeling like “bad luck” and started feeling like a rule: most people didn’t respond at all.

Because of that, his evenings filled with tiny rituals that were half-care, half-defense—refreshing an inbox, pretending he wasn’t refreshing, sipping through a straw and listening for the soft buzz that meant a new message had arrived.

Because of that, when a reply finally came, it landed wrong. It was rarely about him. It was about bravery. About pity-politeness. About curiosity that leaned too close and asked medical questions like they were icebreakers. The chair became the date, the condition became the topic, and Bumbly became the narrator of his own body—again.

Until finally, he printed his profile draft, stared at the pages like they were supposed to contain a doorway, and pressed his paw down beside a coffee-ring stain—leaving a smudged pawprint where the paper drank up his frustration.

Ever since then, he learned the first bitter truth of swipe-world: rejection hurt, but erasure hurt more—being reduced to silence, or to a lesson plan.