Never Let Me Go

Phoebe

The table lamp is broken. Of course it is. There are very few possessions of Phoebe Rush that are not damaged or scratched or misshapen in some way. The window, located just beside her tattered bed, has a crack through its centre. It is only the double glazing that keeps the cold at bay.

Phoebe is not a clumsy girl, and she is certainly not a disordered one. The amount of broken objects that she did not cause certainly doesn't please her, but there is not much she can do. After all, the cracks only get larger when she tries to fix them. They always have.

Still, today, what is normally a mild irritation has become akin to a nightmare. No table light means no biology practice papers. And if Phoebe wants to get into medical school – and she will – then practice papers are a necessity. She attempts to use the light on her phone, but quickly deems it pointless. The papers will have to wait.

Phoebe leans back slightly, careful not to fall backwards off the flimsy stool. She needs energy. But she is well aware that going downstairs now is a foolish decision, and so she must distract herself until a reasonable hour. The girl stands from her seat, careful not to make too much noise during the early hours of the morning. Reading in such bad light is also quite impossible, and so she will have to find something else. What, she has no idea. There are not a lot of activities that Phoebe Rush deems worth her time, and not a great deal of ways that she can spend her day. Although, she supposes, perhaps the news is of interest.

She slides carefully into her bed, putting an old blanket over her legs despite not being cold. It is a comfort to Phoebe; it always has been. Scrolling through a few articles keeps her occupied for a while, but there is only so much that a person can process in a day. She finishes the article that she is currently on, and intends to shut off her phone. But, something catches her attention. There is an advert on the bottom of the side. It flashes gentle blue in her eyes and displays something in neat little letters. She clicks.

It leads her to the app store, where her dark eyes scan over the app description. Lonely hearts are promised refuge – a safe place to hide away from the world, and from all who might know them. Lonely hearts are matched with one other – no more, no less – in the hope that they might build a powerful friendship. It promises an entirely anonymous connection, which no opportunity to call or send images or anything that might ruin the texting experience. And then, if you wish, you may give your contact details once you feel strongly connected with your match.

Phoebe hesitates. An app like this would surely take up an unnecessary amount of time, which could be better used on her studies. An app like this could ruin her grades.

An app like this could find me a reason. An app like this could give me hope.

She clicks download.