When the Signal Dies, Love Is Logistics—and Every Choice Has a Cost

room was small. Fluorescent lights. Folding chairs. A coffee urn that smelled like burnt hope.

Seven people came.

Then twelve.

Then, by the time I started, there were twenty-three.

They didn’t look like a comment section. They looked like… life.

A single mom with a toddler tugging on her sleeve.

A delivery driver still in his work jacket.

An older woman with continue reading …