Ghosted.

I wasn't thinking about the supernatural creature that lived in between worlds: afterlife and reality. I meant the modern-day definition associated with technology and social media. I never heard the term until I created my multiple dating accounts. "Ghosted" implied certain nouns, such as: goner, ignorer, leaver, and zero contact. I participated in these acts without any knowledge of the word. I ghosted quickly and effortlessly; it was easy considering, I turned off my online dating notifications. My smart phone's battery died within an hour if I kept the notifications on.

I answered important messages whenever I felt a "breeze" pass by. More importantly, when the woman was super-mega-gorgeous and she teased like an owner playing keep away with their dog. Within my grasp, I typed up my response and reciprocated back the woman's sentiment as best as I could.

With a few flirty comments like cutie, darlin', and sweetheart along with an emoji smiley face ... maybe throw in a winky face. I engaged with my flirty responder, and I "disappeared" for another week or month before they reached out once more.

However, I never had anyone "ghost" me before. At least, no one had blatantly done it to my face – virtually meaning.

But the woman did.

One week had passed, I couldn't reply back to her simple, yet conniving message.

❤️

It wasn't that the message caused embers to sizzle and crackle. No.

It was the fact my access was denied: no typed messages, no more viewing her profile, and no participation in any actions. My gut twisted and my teeth clenched. She won the ghosting game.

She freaking blocked me!

The equivalent to a "block" would be person "A" communicating to person "B." Before person "A" opened their mouth to convey their thoughts and ideas, person "B" held up their hand, shimmed their way over on the other side without an acknowledgement, look, or words expressed to person "A." In the public eye, this type of behavior would be frowned upon! Rude even to dismiss a light polite conversation.

I gripped my smartphone. My mind drifted to the scenario.

My knuckles turned white. Both hands were occupied. My right hand held onto my smartphone as I reread her daring message. My left hand rested on my knee, my finger dug into my cashmere jeans.

Put your game face on, I grit my teeth. There was no time to think of her.

I put away my smartphone. I didn't need another distraction before the pitch meeting happened. I released the pressure. The color regained back within my hands.

I flew from the Cincinnati-Kentucky airport and landed in L.A. Christmas was in a week, full flights with multiple people on a tight schedule. Luckily, I didn't have to book the flight. Min-ho took the responsibility and sorted out all the details. My chauffeur waited with my name written in cursive on a tablet, accompanied (took my carry-on bag) and drove me to my destination: Hazel, Inc.

Easily mistaken for an edible product company instead of its true purpose and accomplishments. Hazel, Inc. prided in its genuine and authenticity through documentaries and short films. The company partnered with Lucas and Friends, Inc. on Champion. Both businesses needed a saving grace and viewers. With their ingenious concept and most watched reality television show since the Kardashians and Big Brother, both companies started branching off and took different routes within the television community.

I let out a deep breath.

Where was Min-ho? He should've been here by now. Knowing Min-ho, he probably arrived a whole hour early.

Min-ho had a home residence in Los Angeles, California and in Seoul, South Korea. He visited Cincinnati when he could, but for the most part, he traveled so much that I teased Min-ho that he lived on an airplane.

Leaning forward, I placed my hands behind my head. My periwinkle jacket was smooth and wrinkled free. The gray-and-black checkered tie clipped to my undershirt. I wore white socks with a set of orange parallel lines on the top, where my pants covered it up. My charcoal dress-shoes held a new shine that mirrored a small glimpse of my surroundings.

Emerald paper and plastic garlands decorated the walls and columns; scarlet and sapphire ornaments arranged on the garlands. Small handmade snowflakes hung from the ceiling. On the snowflakes there were different patterns like stars, stripes, hearts, and triangles. In the waiting area, the open space had cream-white circular and gray rectangular couches.

I sat on a gray couch that had no backing. The rectangular cushions zipped all the way around. Whatever material was hidden with the cushion, I was grateful.

My feet stomped fast and lightly. Moving my wrist, the gold and silver watch read 9:55 a.m.

Five more minutes.

I rubbed my hands together. Someone chuckled.

"If a stranger walked by, they might think you're nervous or something," Min-ho said, "Who would have thought, the famous August Wakefield's nervous."

"Don't call me famous," I held up my hands.

"Really? You're now getting shy on me? Your nerves are showing."

Min-ho moved closer to me. He wore a similar outfit - a three-piece suit - but he went for the classic black suit, a jewel instead of a tie, and white undershirt.

"You're the famous one between us. Nobody recalls fourth place. Everyone remembers the winner," I stated.

Min-ho frowned. "Are you sulking?"

I ran my hand over my face. The faint face-powder didn't rub off, I wanted no one to notice my blemishes or redness in my eyes from lack of sleep.

"I know what I'm doing," I said. I guessed.

Min-ho leaned over to gaze at me some more. I bet he thought I was a wuss. I would stand in the corners with my arms across my chest, no one around me, just listening to the contestants. My eyes stared at the onyx flooring. It had flakes of gold in it from what I could remember. And yet, Min-ho walked over . . . even with my slouch shoulders, with his dimple smile, "You have it all figured out right?" That question branched off into a back and forth badminton tournament conversation with his encouraging statements and me wailing with doubt.

"Go talk with Chelsea – look her in the eye. Like we practiced."

"I don't know," I said, rubbing the back of my neck.

"In this scene, you'll probably be the winner. Why? Because you're athletic – that's a part of your story," Min-ho reassured me.

My body language gradually transformed into something more laid back, my voice was slow speaking and filled with snarky remarks, my eyes stared now, and an easy and gentle smile. I began to comfortably grow in my narrative; Min-ho believed I would win the season. However, the incident with Penelope - her -, she created a pact with me and then she sided with Charles. In the challenges and small games, they went against me.

I came in fourth place. Min-ho heard, from other observers, that I had raised my voice: "Why did you do that Penelope? You and me – we were a team!" I exclaimed. Body guards came and took me away from her dressing room.

Rumors spread that I hit her, but I would never have done such a thing.

Throughout the show, I bought white roses, handwritten notes, made homemade chicken noodle soup, and short stories and novels. Each day was unique and the chicken broth made my mouth water. I delivered them to her every night. Before and during the pact was established.

I hadn't talked about the incident. It was an unspoken agreement to not ask. Min-ho tapped my shoulder, breaking me from those memories. "You're ready."

"If I hear it enough times, then I'll start to believe," I declared.

Min-ho smiled. "Start believing then," Min-ho stood up. "Someone should be directing us to the meeting soon."

I stood as well. My carry-on leaned against the couch's leg. In the bag, there was a laptop and two printed presentations in case of technical difficulties. I typed up all the details, my proposal, and my project. Espresso and extra-large lattes tricked my brain into staying awake until four in the morning.

I had one shot at winning over their interest and investment. I had the whole week to prepare my proposal since Hazel, Inc. had one opening left. A cancellation occurred for December, and the next available project pitch wasn't until September 2018. Nearly a whole year later. When Min-ho asked out of curiosity about the unavailability, the receptionist blatantly said: "Mr. Dalton tends to like looking forward to the future. He tries to find the next assignment. He has to have it all planned out."

Without Min-ho's networking and the cancellation, I wouldn't have gotten this opportunity.

I didn't reply to Min-ho's statement.

My halfway smug revealed my conflicting emotions.

"Mr. Wakefield," a feminine voice said.

I turned to meet the young woman's gaze. She wore black dress pants, maroon blouse that had frills, charcoal flats, and pinned her brunette hair into a bun.

"Please follow me. Mr. Dalton and the Board are ready to see you."

I reached over and picked up my carry-on bag. One more tug to straighten up my tie, I followed the young lady.

Min-ho followed behind me. This wasn't his battle. Min-ho provided the armor and aided in the meeting, but he had to observe like anyone else. Not life or death. That seemed to be an exaggeration; instead, whatever the outcome this proposal was, it would be one of the first movements I had made since Penelope announced her engagement with former first place winner, Charles.

The young woman held the door open for me.

"May I have your autograph later?" she whispered. Her warm breath hit my chin as she gazed up at me.

Die-hard fan. She wouldn't know who I was if she wasn't invested in the show.

"Of course." I winked and then proceeded into the room.

The board room had an enormous mahogany table positioned in the middle. The rectangular edges were pointy and stood out as if daring the newcomers to pass them. Three plain white walls constricted the room, but the sunshine beamed in through the horizontal window that touched the floor and ceiling. On the opposite side of the space, all the members sat with their notebooks and notepads on the table. A mix of men and women were a part of this group. One young man twirled his pen in his left hand. Another woman wrote something down on her paper. All other pens positioned on the right or left, all depended on the person's dominant hand.

The sullen eyed man stared at his notepad. He sat at the head of the table. His elbows rested on the edge and hands rubbed his face. Shoulders hunched over his work as his fellow colleagues stayed silent.

"This is shit. Utter shit. Twenty proposals today and none with any potential," the sullen eyed man said.

"Sir." The lady announced who welcomed us in.

"What?"

"Mr. Wakefield is our last presenter."

The man leaned back into his roller chair. Now one elbow leaned against the stable table.

"My apologies. I thought we were done," he concluded.

The young woman replied, "Almost."

Then she moved out of the way and sat down in one of the side chairs. Min-ho stood off on the side of the room. He stood up-right and waited patiently for me to begin.

I licked my lips. I placed my carry-on bag on one of the empty seats. There were at least ten seats between me and my listeners. The vast openness and space overwhelmed me. The separation intensified the listeners' gaze.

This felt like high school all over again. All eyes on me. Disgusting, I didn't want to remember those memories.

Over on the left, a projector screen floated down and a small remote laid on the table. It would have been fitting if a typed-up message "click me" was stuck on the remote. An Alice in Wonderland feel. Instead of the silent observations, no one communicated with me. Sighs and a few grumbles from their stomachs.

I didn't want to ask questions.

I looked out of place. They didn't know who I was.

Pulling out my laptop and printed slideshow, I logged on and used Bluetooth to sync my laptop to the projector. These few seconds seemed like an hour. I tapped my foot on the ground. My onlookers started to have a small conversation: weather, what they were going to eat, family and friends events this week, and plans for the holidays. The sullen eyed man drummed his fingers on the table. He sighed three times in a row.

I perspired. I clicked and then my presentation appeared. My hand grasped onto the tiny remote and made my slides emerge on the screen.

One step down.

Standing up-right, the biggest grin that I could muster developed. My squinted eyes seemed smaller.

"Welcome everyone," I said, my voice protruded. "As you may know, my name is August Wakefield. My hobbies are-"

I stopped. I was taught to introduce myself in the beginning of a presentation. However, with the listeners' body language (arms crossed, groans, eyes stared everywhere but at me, and a young man doodling on his notepad), I couldn't continue my rehearsed speech.

I tried to formulate another sentence.

What the hell do I say? What'll make them interested?

On my slideshow packet, I printed off, there were extra notes that I wrote in pencil. Random facts like statistics and background information about online dating. I didn't have time to add the material within the slideshow.

"Actually," I stated, "Nineteen percent of brides say they met their spouses online. This has increased fourteen percent since 2015. Only two years! Why has this increased?"

I earned their gazes now. A woman leaned against the table.

"Online dating has helped people communicate and reach others within their community or around the world. Why am I bringing up this fascinating fun fact?" The crowd didn't respond.

I could bring a horse to water, but I couldn't make the horse drink it.

"This story follows a person that undergoes an online dating journey. A long term partner? One night stands? Of course, this person will struggle and have conflicts. The camera will follow them around. But ultimately, viewers would wonder, 'does online dating actually work?' No matter what the goal is for the person."

"How is this any different than," the man at the end of the table said, "let's say, The Bachelor or any other romantic reality television show?"

Originality, I inwardly groaned.

"This isn't a competition," I immediately responded, "Whether or not, any one person discovers if any online dating works."

My audience nodded their heads.

I clicked the remote and the screen moved to the next slide.

"There are clichés about love. Is this real or true? The viewers will meet the person and spends time with them-"

"Will this story follow you?" the man interrupted again, "After all, you're a reality television star."

"I was thinking-" I began.

"How would you make the viewers believe this is real? Since we create documentaries."

I was silent.

The man leaned back against his chair. "How about we have an early lunch?"

Min-ho stood and stared at this group. His dark brown eyes widened.

No. This couldn't be the end.

"Viewers will be skeptical because that comes with the territory when you deal with love. We'll be straight forward and say that the person isn't perfect. To answer your question, yes, I'm proposing that this story follows me. I'm not here to fall in love. I don't believe in the rose petal fluff. I've had experience with online dating," I confirmed.

"This is a self-absorbed thing, you just want this down in your resume," the doodle guy spoke.

"No, you misunderstand." I shook my head. "I want to explore that question - does online dating work? I'm willing to tackle this project because I know I won't fall in love."

"Is that a challenge?" the young man spoke up. The same man who twirled his pen before the meeting.

Not the sullen eyed man at the end of the table.

"Not a challenge. I just know that not every partner or woman will agree and compliment me," I informed.

The young man stood up. "Do you know from your past experience?"

I knew one woman who disagreed with me.

"You're correct. I know a few that disagree with my goal in using these apps."

"Conflict then," the man replied.

I nodded.

The young man covered his mouth with his hand.

The other people stared at him.

"Mr. Dalton, I recommend not to pursue this," the sullen eyed man said.

Wait, the old guy wasn't Mr. Dalton?

The young man walked over towards me. His gentle hazel eyes stared as he held out his hand.

"Welcome to Hazel, Inc. We're interested in your project. I apologize for the informality. I don't introduce myself because first impressions can be a 'kiss up' factor. Your confident defense for your proposal was refreshing," the young gentleman declared.

What the hell was going on?

"Let's polish and agree on the next step," he continued.

His coworkers groaned.

Mr. Dalton chuckled. "Of course, after lunch."

"Thank God," the old man said.

They moved out of their seats.

"One thing I recommend before we move forward," Mr. Dalton said, "we need conflict in this project. Viewers want tension and transformation. Are you willing to allow that to happen?"

I needed this. A whole year without any inspiration. I needed to forget –

The woman. That stupid peppermint aroma. Her caramel eyes. She went against me.

"I'm willing," I lied.

Mr. Dalton smiled. "Perfect."

I walked away and went over to Min-ho.

Min-ho smiled and patted my shoulder.

"Congrats! Great step forward."

"Min-ho, can you do me a favor?"

Min-ho frowned. "Depends on what the favor is."

"Can you find someone?" I asked.

Sugar.

Love you dearies!