Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
TRAVIS
I narrow my eyes in suspicion as I read the post that’s currently glowing up fast on my screen.
Another insta-love story. We get them all the time. About how someone “just knew” when they met the love of their life.
Even SunshineGuy is skeptical about insta-love stories, and if he’s skeptical about something, you know it’s less believable than a politician’s campaign promises.
Right. Time for the checklist:
Exact timeframe mentioned? Check. 4 seconds—humanly impossible to process attraction, evaluate compatibility, and override basic survival instincts after a car accident.
Romantic callback location? Check. Of course they got engaged at the crash site. Because nothing says eternal love like automotive trauma.
Universe as matchmaker? Check. The universe has thirteen point eight billion years of experience and apparently uses it to cause fender benders so people can meet the love of their life.
Verdict: Fabricated. Next.
But, of course, when I flag the post for removal, SunshineGuy drops into the chat to challenge me.
TruthGuardian
It’s insta-love. I thought we both agreed how stupid that concept is.
SunshineGuy
I completely disagree with the concept of insta-love, but it doesn’t mean people don’t believe it retrospectively. Our brains aren’t exactly the most reliable narrators. These guys met, they clicked, and now their memory has added a romantic Instagram filter. They THINK it’s true.
TruthGuardian
Asking for coffee instead of insurance information suggests head trauma, so maybe that explains it.
SunshineGuy
Okay, that made me snort my coffee, and now everyone around me is giving me funny looks.
A weird thrill of triumph shoots through me that I made SunshineGuy laugh.
TruthGuardian
Maybe concussion protocols should be changed to include “did you suddenly feel like marrying the other driver?”
SunshineGuy
Who knows, maybe airbags cause temporary romantic delusions? Should we alert the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration?
Now I’m grinning, which is fine because I’m alone in my apartment and there are no witnesses to this temporary lapse in cynicism.
Moderating this forum is my guilty pleasure that no one knows about. It doesn’t exactly fit with my usual brand of aggressive pragmatism.
I first heard about ShareYourGlow when one of my fellow engineers at work, Jayla, became addicted to it and constantly talked about it.
And even though my worldview could potentially be described as cynical, I fully supported the idea behind the forum.
I agree that with the current state of the world, we need reminders of all the good people in it.
We need proof that our shared humanity hasn’t been completely swallowed by algorithms and outrage cycles.
So when Jayla sent me a link to a post about a bus driver who’d been learning sign language in secret to communicate with a Deaf kid on his route, and on the kid’s birthday, the entire bus had learned to sign “Happy Birthday,” I’d clicked on it.
And after I’d read that post, I started poking around on the forum and stumbled across the lightbeam, as they call it in Glow speak, QueerWaystoFallinLove.
And I couldn’t stop myself from reading all the stories, even the obviously fake ones, because apparently my brain needed to know if GayPanic97 ever got together with his CrossFit instructor. Dopamine is a hell of a neurotransmitter, and I clearly have less self-control than I’d like to believe.
Now, moderating the forum is my guilty pleasure. Sure, most days I think humanity is a failed experiment, but occasionally someone posts something real and true, and it almost makes me believe we’re not completely doomed.
The forum is like a digital sanctuary for people who still want to believe in good things. And by becoming a moderator, I appointed myself the bouncer to keep the liars out.
Although I have to admit, one of the reasons I keep coming back is SunshineGuy.
Initially, all we did was argue, but lately…? Lately, it’s felt more like amusing disagreements with a friend rather than intellectual warfare with someone whose brain has been rotted by rom-coms.
Now, when I’m having a particularly bad day at work, dealing with architects who think load-bearing walls are suggestions and clients who want to remove columns because they’re “blocking the feng shui,” I actually find myself looking forward to seeing what ridiculous story SunshineGuy is defending.
I’ve started to structure my moderation schedule around when he’s online.
Not in a weird way. Just in a completely logical way, where I’ve optimized for overlap.
He logs on early in the morning, then again during his lunch break, and finally around nine p.m., after what he once mentioned was his evening run.
It’s purely for efficiency. You can’t properly fact-check without someone to argue with about the results.
I’ve even found myself saving his best comebacks in a file I definitely didn’t label “SunshineIdiot.txt.” It’s purely for research purposes because I need to study his argument patterns for weaknesses.
The fact that some of his comments are genuinely funny is a compounding variable I’m choosing to ignore.
Like the one where he said my skepticism was so strong it could be listed as the cause of death on Cupid’s autopsy report. I’m still annoyed at how much that made me laugh.
Anyway, time to stop thinking about him and get back to arguing with him.
TruthGuardian
There are other aspects of the story besides the insta-love that don’t check out. Who gets engaged at the scene of their accident?
SunshineGuy
Maybe they’re just really into symbolic gestures? Some people propose where they first met. This is just…automotive-themed romance.
TruthGuardian
Automotive-themed romance should not be a genre that exists.
SunshineGuy
Says the person who probably categorizes love stories in Excel spreadsheets with twelve color-coded tabs.
I pause, fingers hovering over my keyboard. Because I absolutely have a spreadsheet. And it’s definitely color-coded.
TruthGuardian
Mine actually has fifteen tabs.
SunshineGuy
Oh my god, you actually have a spreadsheet. This explains so much. Do you have formulas? Please tell me you have formulas to calculate the probability of a story being true.
TruthGuardian
Of course I do. The formulas are perfectly reasonable.
(Specificity of details × consistency of timeline) ÷ number of convenient coincidences + likelihood of documentation = bullshit factor.
SunshineGuy
I’m printing this out and framing it. “Bullshit Factor: A Mathematical Approach to Romance by TruthGuardian”
TruthGuardian
Don’t forget the subtitle: “Why SunshineGuy Is Wrong: A Comprehensive Analysis”
SunshineGuy
Joke’s on you, I’d absolutely read any report with that title. Especially if it has graphs. Please tell me there are graphs.
TruthGuardian
The graphs are beautiful. You’d weep at their accuracy.
SunshineGuy
The only thing making me weep is imagining you on a date, pulling out visual aids to explain why love at first sight is statistically impossible.
TruthGuardian
It’s bold of you to assume I date.
I immediately regret typing that. Fuck. That was more honest than I intended to be with someone I’ve never actually met.
The dots that are usually present next to his name don’t appear.
There’s nothing.
But after a minute, the dots begin again, and then his reply finally hits my screen.
SunshineGuy
Everyone deserves someone who appreciates their spreadsheets. Even the color-coded cynical ones.
Before I can figure out how to respond to that, there’s a knock on my door. It’s not a polite knock either. Which means I know exactly who it is.
My brother.
I glance at my laptop, then at the door, then back at my laptop. SunshineGuy is typing again. Those three dots mock me as I watch them pulse.
Brocker continues his hammering.
I shut my laptop, but grab my phone. Thankfully, the ShareYourGlow app means I can still communicate without worrying about Brocker’s beady eyes on my laptop.
“All right, all right, I’m coming,” I call out, but not before I see SunshineGuy’s message pop up.
SunshineGuy
And even cynics need cuddles.
Fuck. Now I have to think about SunshineGuy using the word “cuddles” while my brother is about to break down my door.
I yank it open to find Brocker standing there in full athletic gear, holding two racquetball rackets like weapons.
“You’re early,” I inform him.
“I know. The traffic gods actually smiled on me for once.” He comes in and flops down on my couch.
My phone buzzes with another message from SunshineGuy.
SunshineGuy
Oh god, did I make it weird? I made it weird. Ignore the cuddles comment. Unless you don’t want to ignore it? Now I’m making it even weirder. This is why I shouldn’t be allowed to communicate with people. I have zero chill.
I can’t help it. I smile down at my phone like an idiot. I’m forced to acknowledge that I’m genuinely charmed by SunshineGuy’s rambling attempt to give me love life advice. Which is an inconvenient development.
“Why are you smiling at your phone?” Brocker’s voice cuts through my thoughts. He’s straightening up on my couch, looking at me with the intensity of a detective who’s just found a crucial clue.
“I’m not smiling.”
“You’re absolutely smiling. You’re doing the face.”
“What face?”
“The face you make when you think no one’s looking and you’re actually enjoying yourself.” He stands up, trying to peer at my phone. “Who are you texting?”
“No one.” I shove my phone in my pocket.
“Oh my god, is it someone from a dating app? Did you finally download one?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Travis.” Brocker says my name like I’m one of his disappointing students. “You’re thirty-two. You haven’t dated anyone since Albert, and that was two years ago. You’re a relationship guy pretending to be a lone wolf.”
“I’m not pretending anything—”
“You own multiple types of screwdrivers. You own coasters. You’re literally the perfect boyfriend for a guy who wants reliability and someone who’ll remember their mother’s birthday.”
I don’t have an answer to that. Because there is validity to his argument.
Well, I’m definitely not a one-night stand, casual hookup guy, anyway.
Which logically makes me a relationship person who hasn’t been in a relationship for two years.
The math on that doesn’t exactly work in my favor for my sex life.
Brocker stands, rummages in my closet, and then tosses my gym bag at me. “Look, all I’m saying is you’re wasting perfectly good boyfriend material by hiding in your apartment chatting with strangers online.”
“They’re not strangers,” I mutter, then immediately wish I hadn’t.
Brocker’s eyes light up. “Oh really? So you have internet friends? Is that who you were smiling at?”
“We’re not friends. We just…debate. About stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Nothing you need to know about.”
Brocker rolls his eyes. “Come on, let’s get going. Maybe physical exercise will help you see reason. At the very least, it’ll burn off some of that frustration.”
I grab my gym bag, but as we’re leaving my apartment, I can’t help pulling out my phone one more time so I don’t leave SunshineGuy hanging.
TruthGuardian
You didn’t make it weird. And you’re right that cynics need cuddles too. I just get mine from a cat.
SunshineGuy
You have a cat?? How did I not know that?
TruthGuardian
It’s not MY cat. Ernest Hemingpaw belongs to the people in the apartment next to mine, but apparently, nobody informed him of property boundaries.
SunshineGuy
ERNEST HEMINGPAW? That’s an amazing name. Please tell me you secretly love him.
TruthGuardian
I do not secretly love him. I don’t appreciate having to purchase a small bag of cat treats to ensure peaceful Saturday mornings.
SunshineGuy
Wait, you give him treats? You’ve been adopted!
TruthGuardian
It’s extortion, not adoption. Completely different relationship dynamic.
SunshineGuy
Whatever. You’re one “I bought him a little bed” away from full cat-dad status, and we both know it.
I’m grinning again. Fuck.
“You’re doing the face again,” Brocker says.
“Shut up.”
As we head down the stairs, I find myself wondering what SunshineGuy is like in real life. Does he really believe all that optimistic garbage, or is it just his online persona? Does he actually go for evening runs, and does he smile as much in person as his username suggests?
What would it be like to have someone like him to banter with in person?