Aarav didn’t look at people; he scanned them. He sat in The Third Wave, Greater Kailash II—picked for its warm amber light, forgiving to pores, perfect for Stories. Across from him sat Riya. On Bumble she was “24, architect, 5’6”, fluent in sarcasm.” In reality, Aarav registered details with clinical distance: closer to 5’5”, tired around the eyes, sarcasm that was mostly traffic complaints. Data mismatch. Product description inaccurate. Riya stirred her matcha. “My grandmother’s been really sick. Weekends are in hospitals. It’s exhausting. I even feel guilty being here.” Aarav nodded with his Active Listening Face—head tilted, brows softened, empathy carefully performed. Inside, he felt the itch. The itch lived in his right thigh, exactly where his iPhone sat. Statistically, at least three other matches were waiting. Maybe one didn’t talk about dying relatives on a first date. Maybe one was the upgrade. This was human connection reduced to a shopping cart: compare, evaluate, replace. And Aarav was always comparing.