Chapter 2: Doubts
The three weeks stretched and contracted like a fever dream. Time moved in jagged bursts. One minute Peter would be in a lecture hall, the professor’s voice a distant hum, his mind replaying her words—I can take anything you give me—and his skin would feel electric. The next, he’d be lying in the dark, a cold dread pooling in his stomach. This was insanity. He was going to meet a stranger in a supermarket parking lot to step on her. The fantasy, now dressed in the plain clothes of reality, felt ludicrous, dangerous.
He cleaned his apartment. Not a polite tidy, but a frantic, sweating excavation. He bagged the socks, scrubbed the faint energy-drink rings off his desk, even attempted to re-glue the corners of the Beatles poster. He bought a new, plain grey towel and laid it neatly on the floor by the bed, a stage for the unimaginable.
The day arrived. The hours dragged. At 1 PM, his phone buzzed.
Eva: Hey. Really sorry. Woke up with a fever. Can’t move. Need to reschedule.
The message was a physical blow. The air left his lungs. All the coiled tension in his body had nowhere to go. He just stared at the screen, his thumb whitening on the edge of the phone.
Peter: Oh. Okay. Feel better.
Eva: I will. In three weeks when I fell better and have time again? Same time, same place?
Peter: Yeah. Sure.
The Appointment that followed was worse. The anticipation had curdled into anxiety. Every slight cough, every twinge in his own body filled him with a superstitious fear. He checked his phone constantly. She didn’t message again, But she didn't cancel either.
The day of the third planned meeting arrived. He woke up early, his heart a dull thud. He didn’t shower. He put on the same hoodie he’d worn the first time. He waited. 10 AM. Noon. 1 PM. 1:30. His phone was a silent brick.
He texts her whats going on, that he waits but no answer.
The day after Eva responded: so sorry, Last-minute thing. A regular in Dubai flew me out for a session. Big money, couldn’t say no. Sorry.
Peter read it five times. Flew me out. Dubai. Big money. The words were casually professional, like cancelling a dentist appointment. The hollow feeling from weeks before returned, wider and deeper. This was her real life. He was a phantom, a maybe, a message in an app.
Peter: I get it. No problem.
Eva: You’re sweet. I’ll make it up to you. Promise.
He doesn't let up and asks for a new date. He didn’t believe it will really work. But a tiny, stubborn ember of hope still glowed.
Eva explains to him that she feels pressured by him and Peter doesn't ask so often anymore.
After some time, he wanted to try again and wrote to her to ask for a meeting.
Days bled into a week and into a month. He checked the app. Her profile was still there, the same photos. He had no way to know if she was reading his messages. The silence was absolute. The ember of hope finally sputtered and went out, leaving only cold ash. It had been a fantasy after all. Just a more elaborate, more cruel one. He’d been a momentary curiosity for a professional, a footnote scribbled on the edge of her busy schedule, then erased.
However, not only does she not answer, she has not been online for a long time
One months passed in a fog. He stopped cleaning. The new towel stayed folded on a shelf. He went to classes, ate pasta, watched videos—not the trampling ones, just anything to fill the silence in his head. The obsession had mutated into a kind of weary surveillance. He’d open their message thread, stare at the last exchange, and close it.
He watched the screen. No ticks. No dots. Just his message, floating in digital space. No sign of his high phrased Eva.
After that he sent one more message. Peter: Hope everything’s okay.
The peeling wallpaper in his room seemed to mock him again. The chaos crept back in, a can on the desk, a sock on the floor. He threw the grey towel in the back of his closet.
Life resumed its old shape. He went to lectures, scrolled through his phone, ordered pizza. The strange, charged silence in his apartment was gone, replaced by the old, familiar emptiness. He didn’t look at the trampling sites. The bookmark folder felt like evidence from a crime he’d almost committed.
Weeks passed. Autumn chill seeped through the window frame. One Tuesday evening, sitting at his desk, the hollow feeling was particularly vast. A quiet, desperate anger simmered beneath it. He’d let himself believe. He’d cleaned his room. He’d bought a towel.
His fingers moved on their own. He navigated to the site, the familiar URL typed from muscle memory. The page loaded. Thumbnails of women in boots, of balanced boards, of focused faces. It was all still here. His secret world. It had never needed Eva.
He clicked a video. The blue light filled his face. A woman, athletic and smiling, lay on a mat. A man’s bare foot pressed slowly, deliberately, onto her flat, toned stomach. Her abs tightened, but her smile held.
Peter watched. His breath evened out. The old, solitary ritual. The fantasy was here, safe, contained in a screen. It was easier this way. It had to be.
He closed the laptop halfway through, the room plunging into near-darkness. The video had been just a video. It didn’t feel like a window anymore. It felt like a mirror, and all it showed was a guy in a dim room, alone. He put his head in his hands, and for the first time since that very first message, he didn’t feel excited or anxious. He just felt tired. The shaking had stopped for good.