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These lil nigga funny
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Title: āMessages Left on Readā
Ravi was 26, working as a systems analyst in a mid-sized tech company just outside Philadelphia. He made decent moneyāenough for a one-bedroom apartment, decent takeout on weekends, and the occasional trip back to New Jersey to see his parents. His Tinder profile had five pictures: two selfies, one group shot from college, one blurry gym mirror pic, and one of him awkwardly standing next to a mountain in Colorado, looking like he didnāt know what to do with his hands.
His bio read:
āTech guy, chai enthusiast. Not here for hookups. 5ā6.5 (yes, the .5 matters). Letās talk books, movies, or why pineapple on pizza is a war crime.ā
He got one match every three weeks. Sometimes none.
Ravi wasnāt conventionally attractiveāhe knew this. At 5ā6.5 and 180 pounds, he carried his weight like a guy whoād once played cricket seriously in college but stopped caring after graduation. His jawline was soft, his nose a little bulbous, and he had those sparse patches in his beard that made growing it feel more like defiance than style. Heād once overheard someone describe him as āmeh looking but probably sweet,ā which stayed with him longer than it should have.
He had sex four times in his life. The first was back in collegeādrunken, awkward, in a dorm room with harsh lighting. The girl, Natalie, had apologized afterward, and heād done the same. They never spoke again. The second time was on a trip to Austin, with a woman he met on Hinge. She was 31, white, and marriedāāethically non-monogamous,ā she had explained. It felt transactional. The third was a one-night stand after a wedding, the fourth a brief situationship with a fellow Indian American woman who ghosted him after three dates and a long, vulnerable conversation about his fear of dying alone.
Now, most nights were the same: Ravi would come home from work, microwave some Trader Joeās butter chicken, watch YouTube essays on economics or geopolitics, scroll through Reddit, maybe go for a walk, then lie in bed doom-scrolling Hinge and Instagram, watching people flirt, post thirst traps, get married, live.
He craved intimacy more than sex. The soft neck nuzzle after a long day. The way someone might unconsciously rest their hand on his thigh during a movie. The smell of someone elseās shampoo on his pillow. But desire, when unmet, becomes distorted. Sometimes heād edge for hours, torn between shame and longing, closing porn tabs and reopening them moments later. He never paid for OnlyFans but had a folder of bookmarked Twitter accounts, mostly curvy influencers or South Asian women he projected stories onto.
He had considered hiring a sex worker once. Not out of desperation, but curiosity. What would it feel like to be wanted, even if it was performative? In the end, he couldnāt go through with it. Something about the transactional nature made him feel like he was buying his way out of self-worth.
His therapistāwhite, well-meaning, but awkward around discussions of raceāonce asked him if he thought his low self-esteem came from internalized racism. Ravi didnāt know how to answer that. It wasnāt like he hated himself for being Indian. He loved being Indian, loved the food, the history, the music. But he couldnāt shake the feeling that women, especially the ones he found attractiveāwhite, East Asian, Latinaādidnāt see him as a romantic option. He wasnāt fetishized like Black men or East Asian guys with K-pop haircuts. He wasnāt suave like the tan-skinned Bollywood actors or jacked like fitness influencers. He was justā¦Ravi.
There was one woman, though. Elena. Colombian-American, soft-spoken, worked in HR. Theyād met at a work happy hour. She was the only one who laughed at his pun about Kafka and performance reviews. They started chattingāfirst about Kafka, then Spotify playlists, then immigration stories. She didnāt respond to his first flirtatious message on Slack, so he backed off. But she didnāt stop talking to him either.
One Friday, she invited him out. Not as a date. āSome friends are doing karaoke,ā she said. Ravi came, nervous. She sang Taylor Swift. He rapped AndrĆ© 3000. They ended up at her apartment, both a little drunk, not entirely sure if this was happening. She kissed him. He kissed back. His heart raced, but he moved slow. She pulled away after a while. āIām sorry,ā she said. āI donāt think Iām ready to sleep with anyone right now.ā
He told her it was okay. And it was. They didnāt sleep together. They didnāt even kiss again. But she hugged him before he left, and it was one of the warmest hugs he ever felt. Months later, she started dating someone else.
By 27, Ravi had learned to be functional with his loneliness. He still datedāstill hoped. But he didnāt pretend anymore. He knew that, for men like him, intimacy was not promised. It had to be earned. Slowly. Painfully. And sometimes, it didnāt come at all.
But still, he showed up. Still swiped. Still flirted, nervously, at grocery stores or bookstores or after tech meetups. Still worked out, tried intermittent fasting, experimented with skin care routines. He had not yet given up.
Some nights, he lay in bed, one hand down his sweatpants, other holding his phone, reading messages left on read. Wondering not just what it would feel like to be lovedābut to be seen.
Ravi was 26, working as a systems analyst in a mid-sized tech company just outside Philadelphia. He made decent moneyāenough for a one-bedroom apartment, decent takeout on weekends, and the occasional trip back to New Jersey to see his parents. His Tinder profile had five pictures: two selfies, one group shot from college, one blurry gym mirror pic, and one of him awkwardly standing next to a mountain in Colorado, looking like he didnāt know what to do with his hands.
His bio read:
āTech guy, chai enthusiast. Not here for hookups. 5ā6.5 (yes, the .5 matters). Letās talk books, movies, or why pineapple on pizza is a war crime.ā
He got one match every three weeks. Sometimes none.
Ravi wasnāt conventionally attractiveāhe knew this. At 5ā6.5 and 180 pounds, he carried his weight like a guy whoād once played cricket seriously in college but stopped caring after graduation. His jawline was soft, his nose a little bulbous, and he had those sparse patches in his beard that made growing it feel more like defiance than style. Heād once overheard someone describe him as āmeh looking but probably sweet,ā which stayed with him longer than it should have.
He had sex four times in his life. The first was back in collegeādrunken, awkward, in a dorm room with harsh lighting. The girl, Natalie, had apologized afterward, and heād done the same. They never spoke again. The second time was on a trip to Austin, with a woman he met on Hinge. She was 31, white, and marriedāāethically non-monogamous,ā she had explained. It felt transactional. The third was a one-night stand after a wedding, the fourth a brief situationship with a fellow Indian American woman who ghosted him after three dates and a long, vulnerable conversation about his fear of dying alone.
Now, most nights were the same: Ravi would come home from work, microwave some Trader Joeās butter chicken, watch YouTube essays on economics or geopolitics, scroll through Reddit, maybe go for a walk, then lie in bed doom-scrolling Hinge and Instagram, watching people flirt, post thirst traps, get married, live.
He craved intimacy more than sex. The soft neck nuzzle after a long day. The way someone might unconsciously rest their hand on his thigh during a movie. The smell of someone elseās shampoo on his pillow. But desire, when unmet, becomes distorted. Sometimes heād edge for hours, torn between shame and longing, closing porn tabs and reopening them moments later. He never paid for OnlyFans but had a folder of bookmarked Twitter accounts, mostly curvy influencers or South Asian women he projected stories onto.
He had considered hiring a sex worker once. Not out of desperation, but curiosity. What would it feel like to be wanted, even if it was performative? In the end, he couldnāt go through with it. Something about the transactional nature made him feel like he was buying his way out of self-worth.
His therapistāwhite, well-meaning, but awkward around discussions of raceāonce asked him if he thought his low self-esteem came from internalized racism. Ravi didnāt know how to answer that. It wasnāt like he hated himself for being Indian. He loved being Indian, loved the food, the history, the music. But he couldnāt shake the feeling that women, especially the ones he found attractiveāwhite, East Asian, Latinaādidnāt see him as a romantic option. He wasnāt fetishized like Black men or East Asian guys with K-pop haircuts. He wasnāt suave like the tan-skinned Bollywood actors or jacked like fitness influencers. He was justā¦Ravi.
There was one woman, though. Elena. Colombian-American, soft-spoken, worked in HR. Theyād met at a work happy hour. She was the only one who laughed at his pun about Kafka and performance reviews. They started chattingāfirst about Kafka, then Spotify playlists, then immigration stories. She didnāt respond to his first flirtatious message on Slack, so he backed off. But she didnāt stop talking to him either.
One Friday, she invited him out. Not as a date. āSome friends are doing karaoke,ā she said. Ravi came, nervous. She sang Taylor Swift. He rapped AndrĆ© 3000. They ended up at her apartment, both a little drunk, not entirely sure if this was happening. She kissed him. He kissed back. His heart raced, but he moved slow. She pulled away after a while. āIām sorry,ā she said. āI donāt think Iām ready to sleep with anyone right now.ā
He told her it was okay. And it was. They didnāt sleep together. They didnāt even kiss again. But she hugged him before he left, and it was one of the warmest hugs he ever felt. Months later, she started dating someone else.
By 27, Ravi had learned to be functional with his loneliness. He still datedāstill hoped. But he didnāt pretend anymore. He knew that, for men like him, intimacy was not promised. It had to be earned. Slowly. Painfully. And sometimes, it didnāt come at all.
But still, he showed up. Still swiped. Still flirted, nervously, at grocery stores or bookstores or after tech meetups. Still worked out, tried intermittent fasting, experimented with skin care routines. He had not yet given up.
Some nights, he lay in bed, one hand down his sweatpants, other holding his phone, reading messages left on read. Wondering not just what it would feel like to be lovedābut to be seen.
