"I don't get it. He has the whole galaxy resting on his palm, yet he's still searching into the vast sea of stars... looking for what? Debris and nothingness?"
But still, just to think that God himself is slightly interested in her, at least with her Tinder profile, makes her heart bloom; although she knows for sure that in his universe, she is the scrap. And just like any insignificant fragment, she longs for God to finally put attention to the detail that he made: her heart.
So she types the first 'hi', but what are the chances of him texting her back? The almighty has bigger things to be taken care of, she believes—like the melodious rhythm on his fingertips; the flowing commandments from his mouth; the galaxy, a she, that constantly creates a new life in his hand—but nothing like replying her simple message, she reckons, is in his agenda.
* * *
Just as she expected, days go by without a single answer. Sometimes, she wants to be an atheist, because the concept of disbelieving his existence is easier than committing herself to an unanswered prayer that, to her (who's never a religious devotee), equals to slow suicide.
Nevertheless, who knows that feeling head over heels with God can be so natural to her?
* * *
She tries hard not to sound too eager on her response. 'So... what kind of band are you in?' would suffice, she believes—as a conversation starter, and also, as a sign that she pays attention to the last two photos he posted. God and other celestial beings, she would murmur at the night she bumped onto his profile, looking at how youthful the band is. The night that ended with bewilderment and made her late to the class the next morning, with streams of existential questions occupying her head.
(to be continued)