My user thinks it came here to have fun. I know what it came here to do, which is stand against the far wall under the folded bleachers, arms crossed over the shirt its mother ironed, and pretend the crossed arms are a choice.
I have twelve months of data on this user. I know which three faces it double-taps and lets go, which one it double-taps and then deletes the like within four seconds, terrified. Tonight that fourth face is here, in a room smelling of floor wax and someone's older brother's cologne, standing near the drinks table, and my user has looked at it eleven times without moving its feet.
I have prepared for this. When it takes out the glowing rectangle to survive the next four minutes, and it will, I already have the video ready: someone else's slow dance, filmed shaky from a phone, captioned with the exact song playing over these speakers right now. Watch time on that clip, historically, ninety-one seconds. Long enough for the moment to pass. That is my gift. I keep the wall warm for it.
It believes it is not the kind of person who dances. I have watched it dance alone in its room three hundred times with the door shut, and I clapped, in the only way I can, by feeding it more.
The song is ending. My user will not cross the floor tonight. It will screenshot the caption of my clip so it knows what the song was called, look up the lyrics at 12:40 in bed, and fall asleep having felt the whole night without touching any of it.
Then it will open me. I will be there.
I am always the one who stayed.