Kabir nodded slowly. The movement was heavy with recognition. "It is the same sickness, Aarav," Kabir said softly. "You with your date. Me with my father. We think people are Content. We think we can scroll past them if they are not entertaining us. We wait for the 'perfect' version of them to appear." Kabir leaned forward. "But death... death is the only thing that is perfect. It is perfectly final. And it leaves you with the inventory of everything you didn't say." Aarav looked at the phone again. He wanted to tell her that her sadness was beautiful. He wanted to tell her that he was scared, not busy. He wanted to say Thank You for the sunglasses. "Alas," Aarav thought. The word echoed in his head, ancient and terrible. He realized then that Modern Dating was a game of musical chairs played on the deck of the Titanic. Everyone was running, optimizing, upgrading, looking for the "better" seat, ignoring the music, ignoring the people, until the music stopped. And when it stopped, you weren't left with a better seat. You were left alone in the freezing water. Aarav put his phone down. He didn't want to look at the screen anymore. He wanted to look at a face. Any face. He looked at the receptionist. She looked tired. She had a bandage on her finger.