Maya's mascara left black streaks on the leather seat of the Uber.
The driver kept glancing at her in the rearview mirror as she ugly-cried in his backseat, still wearing the red dress she'd spent two hours picking out.
The same dress that had been bunched up around her waist thirty minutes ago in some stranger's Lagos Island apartment.
"Madam, you dey alright?" the driver asked softly.
She wasn't alright.
She was 29, successful, and had just had sex with a man whose name she'd already forgotten. Again.
Sadly, this was now her pattern.
She had been single for 38 months and in that time had experienced 47 first dates, 12 second dates, 3 short-term situationships that started with fireworks and ended with her blocking numbers and 2 hookups that left her feeling emptier than before and ended with her crying in her car or her apartment.
Correction…3 hookups.
Tonight’s stint was number 3.
At her apartment, Maya peeled off the red dress and threw it in the trash.
She couldn't look at herself in the mirror.
Her phone buzzed.
The text was from tonight's mistake: "Had fun. Let's do it again soon 😉"
Had fun? She'd spent the entire encounter wishing she were anywhere else, but she stayed because leaving felt ruder than enduring it.
Maya opened her main dating apps—all four of them.
Her thumb hovered over each profile picture.
Dozens of conversations that went nowhere.
And hundreds of matches who treated her like a menu option.
"I can't do this anymore," she whispered to her empty bedroom walls.
Delete. Delete. Delete. Delete.
Then she deleted her backup apps.
Then the backup apps for the backup apps.
And as all the apps disappeared from her phone, Maya curled up in her bed, still tasting regret on her lips, and wondered if this was what giving up felt like.
After 35 minutes had passed, she called her best friend Kemi.
I'm done," she announced to her over the phone. "I'm officially retiring from dating."
But as she said it, her stomach twisted.
Was she giving up on love? Or was love giving up on her?
What if deleting those apps meant she'd never meet someone?
What if being alone was worse than being used?
The panic started small. Then it grew.
Because Maya didn't know her real problem wasn't the apps.
It was something much worse.
Something that was about to make her do the stupidest thing of her life...
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