He flushed the toilet for a sound effect, washed his hands without looking at himself, and returned. “Everything okay?” Riya asked. “Work crisis,” Aarav lied easily. “My VP pinged. I have to run.” Riya saw the lie: the phone in his hand, the thumb hovering, the glossy two-dimensional smile. A man turned into a billboard. “Okay,” she said quietly. “Go.” Aarav paid—contactless, instant, transactional—and walked out into the humid night. Relief washed through him. He had escaped the heavy conversation. He opened his phone again and messaged the new match. Hey. What are you up to? He didn’t realize he was standing on a treadmill. By treating people like disposable cups, he was slowly turning into plastic himself. Three years from now, he would sit in Dr. Farah’s waiting room with chronic migraines and a terrifying sense of isolation. He would remember Riya’s eyes—the look that said, I’m hurting, please see me. But for now, the screen glowed blue. And blue was the only color he loved.