ACT 1

"COLLISION"

‘Love is not redemption—it’s the mirror that forces us to redeem ourselves.’

CHAPTER 1: ‘Thread & Melody’

*Daniele*

Vince tossed the phone on the table like he expected me to bow to it.

“Just text her,” he said, chewing gum like it owed him rent. “We matched you two already. First message should go out tonight, ideally something flirty, maybe a little broody—your brand, basically.”

I was slumped in the cracked leather chair at the studio, running on three hours of sleep and half a Red Bull. “I thought we said no filming the first meet.”

“No filming,” he confirmed, winking like he was lying. “We build the story slow. MatchUp loves that. Authenticity and shit.”

I didn’t reply — the app had been sitting there for weeks.

Vince uploaded a couple of my pictures—nothing too personal. I made it clear I didn’t want it linked to my socials, and to his credit, he respected that.
At least for now.

“This is your job now,” he’d said with a smirk. “No one gives a shit about Cold Season Saints unless you’re half-naked or heartbroken.”
He said it as a joke.
But we both knew he meant it.

I unlocked the phone and stared at the screen waiting for it to combust.

Camille. 23. Fashion designer. Wild black hair, one photo blurry from being caught mid-laugh. Another of a leather jacket with words stitched into the sleeve. Bio said:

“Fashion is my first language. Music is my second.”

Vince leaned over my shoulder. “C’mon, this one’s gold. French, artsy, that face?”

I sighed and typed the first thing that came to mind:

So you’re the artist.

Those stitches look like musical notes.

Vince clapped me on the back as if I’d just nailed a verse. “That’s what I’m talking about. Artsy but fuckable.”

I didn’t answer. Not because I disagreed. I just… didn’t care. She was that kind of pretty that made bar fights feel justified. And this whole thing was content, not connection.

Still, after Vince left, I sat there a minute longer, watching the little check mark flick to “read.” Watching her face on the screen, frozen in laughter as though the world couldn't touch her.

Not that I gave a shit.

But something about that picture—

I don’t know. It lingered.

Then the screen dimmed, and I shut it off; it meant nothing.