The universe, in its infinite wisdom, had seen fit to bless Michelle with a singular, undeniable talent: the ability to see beyond the shallow veneers of human interaction and discern, with startling clarity, the true romantic destinies of others. Or so she believed. Michelle’s internal world was a kaleidoscope of dramatic pronouncements and operatic monologues, a grand stage where she, Mich, was the unsung Cupid, the architect of forgotten desires, the harbinger of true love. And yet, somehow, inexplicably, everyone around her seemed utterly blind to this transcendent gift.

Her latest grand endeavour, born from a particularly melancholic Tuesday afternoon spent scrolling through social media, was “Michelle’s Lonely Heart’s Club.” It wasn’t an actual club, not with membership fees or secret handshakes, but more a state of mind, a sacred mission she had bestowed upon herself. Its initiation had involved a particularly resonant, albeit unsolicited, text message campaign to her entire contact list, announcing, “The time for solitary reflection is OVER! Your soulmate awaits, and I shall deliver them. Submit your bio (min. 500 words, no selfies please) to Mich, your personal Love Oracle. #LonelyHeartsClubMich #DestinyAwaits.”

The initial response had been sparse. Mostly confused emojis and one-word replies. Her best friend, Chloe, had simply texted back, “Mich, are you okay?” To which Michelle had replied with a lengthy voice note, detailing the tragic systemic breakdown of modern romance and her divine calling to rectify it. Chloe, ever patient, replied, “Okay, honey. Just remember the last time you tried to set up Mrs. Henderson with the cat groomer.” Michelle, of course, remembered no such failure, only a slight misunderstanding regarding Mrs. Henderson’s aggressive allergy to feline dander. A minor detail.

Her first official “client” (she preferred “destiny’s chosen”) was Brenda from accounts. Brenda was a woman of quiet habits, preferring the company of spreadsheets to social gatherings. She dressed primarily in sensible knitwear, spoke in hushed tones, and had a smile that could best be described as “wary.” Michelle, observing Brenda’s meticulous color-coding system for invoices, had immediately concluded: “She needs passion. She needs fire. She needs someone to shake up her perfectly ordered world.” This was not, Michelle would admit to her internal monologue, an easy assignment, but true love never was.

Michelle’s investigative process was rigorous. It involved extensive social media stalking (purely for research, of course), a series of probing, ostensibly casual questions during coffee breaks, and, if Brenda was being particularly resistant to sharing her romantic woes, a dramatic, sighing monologue from Michelle about the crushing weight of existential loneliness. Brenda, uncomfortable with overt emotional displays, usually divulged just enough for Michelle to fill in the blanks with her own, far more dramatic, assumptions.

Her chosen target for Brenda’s heart was Kevin from the IT department. Kevin wore band t-shirts, had a perpetually dishevelled beard, and possessed a fervent passion for competitive video gaming. Michelle had observed him once, mid-rant about a router’s firmware update, and thought, “Ah, a man of intensity! He will ignite Brenda’s dormant spirit!” The fact that Kevin looked vaguely startled by human interaction and Brenda looked vaguely startled by anything louder than a whispered calculation was, to Michelle, merely an obstacle for lesser mortals.

The “setup” was orchestrated with the precision of a military operation. Michelle convinced Brenda that the office needed a new, more robust server, and that Kevin was the only one who truly understood its intricate needs. “You two will be perfect for this project, Brenda,” Michelle had declared, beaming, her eyes sparkling with the secret knowledge of impending romance. “You with your meticulous planning, Kevin with his… uh… raw, untamed brilliance!”

Brenda, ever dutiful, had agreed to a “working lunch” with Kevin to discuss the server. Michelle, naturally, hovered nearby, pretending to organise files, but actually mentally composing their wedding vows.

The lunch, as recounted by a pale and shell-shocked Brenda later, had been less a meeting of minds and more a collision of two separate universes. Kevin had arrived clutching a copy of “The Beginner’s Guide to Quantum Computing” and immediately launched into an hour-long discourse on the theoretical implications of parallel processing for gaming lag. Brenda, armed with a carefully prepared agenda of server specifications, had attempted to interject with questions about budget and timelines. Kevin had blinked at her, as if she were speaking in an alien tongue, before returning to his monologue. By the time Michelle swooped in, radiating self-congratulation, Brenda was silently picking at a wilting salad leaf, her eyes holding the haunted gaze of one who had stared into the void of an unquantifiable data stream.

“So?” Michelle had chirped, elbowing Brenda gently. “Sparks, no? You two just clicked!”

Brenda had slowly put down her fork. “He told me about his World of Warcraft raid strategy for forty-five minutes, Mich. I think I know more about Orcish battle formations than I do about the new server.”

Michelle frowned. “Ah, yes, his intensity! It’s captivating, isn’t it? A man who knows what he wants!”

“I want a new server, Mich. He wants to explain how to defeat a Lich King using a level 80 mage.” Brenda’s voice was flat, devoid of her usual quiet reserve. “I think… I think I’ll go back to my spreadsheets now.”

Michelle watched Brenda retreat, a dramatic sigh escaping her lips. “Some people,” she muttered to the empty air, “are just resistant to their own happiness. The universe truly tests my patience.” But she was undeterred. True love, like a stubborn stain, simply required a stronger detergent.

Her next target was Mark, a gentle soul from marketing who perpetually looked as though he’d just been told a sad story. Mark was painfully shy, prone to blushing, and communicated primarily through a series of apologetic nods. Michelle, ever the astute observer, concluded: “Mark needs someone to bring him out of his shell! A vibrant, commanding personality!”

Enter Sarah. Sarah was a whirlwind of energy, an aspiring influencer with a fierce independence and a list of deal-breakers longer than War and Peace. She spoke in rapid-fire sentences, punctuated by dramatic hand gestures, and had very specific opinions about everything from artisanal coffee to the correct way to load a dishwasher. Michelle had once overheard Sarah critiquing a colleague’s choice of desktop background, concluding: “She needs a steady, calming presence! Someone who will appreciate her discerning eye!”

The pairing seemed, to Michelle, divinely inspired. “Mark,” she announced, cornering him by the water cooler, “I have found her! The woman who will awaken the sleeping lion within! Sarah is discerning, yes, but she needs a man of substance, a quiet strength!” Mark, visibly terrified, had mumbled something about being busy. Michelle had brushed it aside. “Nonsense! Destiny calls!”

She cornered Sarah next. “Sarah, love, you know how I simply adore your fierce independence?” Sarah preened slightly. “Well, I’ve found a man who will not only admire it but cherish it! Mark is a man of quiet depth, a true listener, someone who will appreciate your discerning eye!” Sarah, flattered, had agreed to a “casual coffee,” stipulating that the venue had to be an aesthetically pleasing establishment with good lighting and ethically sourced beans.

Michelle, practically vibrating with excitement, had then proceeded to give Mark a twenty-minute pep talk on “asserting your presence” and “the power of intense eye contact.” Mark, by the end of it, looked as though he were preparing for a duel.

The coffee date, as chronicled later by Sarah (who recounted it to multiple bewildered colleagues, complete with dramatic re-enactments), had been a magnificent train wreck. Mark, attempting to “assert his presence,” had stared fixedly at Sarah, making her increasingly uncomfortable. Sarah, finding his silence an affront to her conversational prowess, had begun to fill the void with increasingly detailed anecdotes about her last trip to Bali, pausing only to critique Mark’s choice of sweater (“Oh, wool blend? Interesting choice for spring, but you do you.”). Mark, overwhelmed, had spilled his artisanal latte, then apologised profusely for twenty solid minutes, effectively drowning out any chance of Sarah continuing her travelogue.

“He literally said ‘I’m so sorry’ twenty-seven times, Mich!” Sarah had exclaimed, exasperated, later that day. “And the sweater! I mean, really!”

Michelle, however, saw only the deeper meaning. “Ah, his sensitivity! His deep capacity for remorse! And your keen eye for detail, Sarah! It’s a perfect yin and yang!”

Sarah had merely stared at her. “No, Mich. It was just a disaster. My aesthetic was compromised.”

Mark, for his part, had disappeared from the office for the rest of the day, resurfacing only to send a mass email apologising for the spilled coffee and promising to reimburse anyone for potential dry-cleaning costs.

Michelle, though momentarily deflated, quickly rallied. “Evidently,” she confided to her reflection in the office window, “some people require a more… robust approach. My vision is simply too grand for their limited perceptions. I am a pioneer in a wilderness of emotional stagnation.”

Word of “Michelle’s Lonely Heart’s Club” began to spread, not as a beacon of hope, but as a cautionary tale. Colleagues started avoiding eye contact with Michelle, darting into side offices when they saw her approaching. The office printer, usually a hub of gossip, went silent whenever Michelle entered the room.

Undeterred, Michelle pressed on, convinced that the universe was merely testing her resolve. Her next project involved David, a laid-back graphic designer who enjoyed craft beer and obscure documentaries. Michelle, interpreting his chill demeanour as a cry for dramatic intensity, decided he needed someone “with a spark.” She paired him with Fiona, an extremely high-strung HR manager who was obsessed with punctuality and gluten-free diets.

The ensuing date, a “casual drink” at a trendy pub, ended with Fiona walking out mid-sentence after David, attempting to lighten the mood, made a joke about HR policies being “less flexible than a 90-year-old yoga instructor.” Fiona, who considered HR policies sacred, had slammed her half-finished kombucha down and declared that “some humour is simply unprofessional.”

David, baffled, had shrugged. “She seemed… stressed.”

Michelle, upon hearing this, threw her hands up dramatically. “Stressed? David, my dear boy, that was passion! That was the fiery spirit of a woman who knows what she wants! You simply failed to appreciate her intensity!”

David just ordered another IPA and sighed. “I think I just want someone to watch a documentary with, Mich. Maybe one about ancient civilisations, not the one about the proper disposal of hazardous waste.”

By this point, Michelle’s “clients” were actively forming an anti-Michelle support group. Brendan from accounts would subtly warn new hires about “the Matchmaker.” Mark developed an elaborate system of evasive manoeuvrers to avoid Michelle in the hallways, often feigning urgent phone calls or sudden, inexplicable interest in the fire escape plan. Even Chloe, her long-suffering best friend, started screening her calls.

Michelle, however, saw none of this as a reflection on her skills. She only saw a collection of recalcitrant, ungrateful souls who were stubbornly resisting their own pre-ordained happiness.

“They’re all so blind!” she lamented to her reflection one particularly taxing evening. “They require a grand gesture! A public declaration of their intertwined destinies!”

And so, “Michelle’s Lonely Heart’s Club Mixer” was born. She rented the small function room above a local café, decorated it with fairy lights and a banner proclaiming “Love is in the Air (and I put it there!).” She personally invited every single person she had ever attempted to set up, plus a few unsuspecting new recruits she hoped to “matchmake” on the spot.

The atmosphere in the function room was less “romantic mixer” and more “uncomfortable family gathering where everyone secretly hates each other.” Brenda from accounts studiously avoided eye contact with Kevin, who was attempting to explain the intricacies of a new gaming console to a potted plant. Mark huddled in a corner, sweating profusely, while Sarah openly critiqued the fairy light arrangement (“Too warm a tone, it washes out the complexion”). Fiona from HR stood by the snack table, dissecting the nutritional information of the gluten-free crackers. David had brought a book about Roman aqueducts.

Michelle, however, was blissfully unaware of the prevailing awkwardness. She flitted between her “couples,” urging them to “mingle,” “connect,” and “feel the undeniable pull of destiny.”

“Brenda, darling, go tell Kevin about your fascinating spreadsheet system! He’ll be captivated by your meticulous mind!” Michelle nudged Brenda towards Kevin, who visibly recoiled.

“Mark, my dear, go offer Sarah some of those delightful organic grapes! A truly discerning gesture!” Mark, his face beet red, stumbled towards Sarah, who was currently explaining to Fiona why the café’s choice of background music was an auditory assault.

The climax came when Michelle, determined to force a breakthrough, gathered everyone for a “group icebreaker.” She handed out little cards with questions like, “What is your deepest romantic desire?” and “Describe your ideal Sunday.”

“Now,” Michelle announced, clapping her hands, “let’s share! Brenda, you first!”

Brenda, cornered, mumbled, “I just want to finish my year-end report without any major data breaches.”

“Kevin?” Michelle pressed.

“To achieve level 120 on my Paladin,” Kevin said, without looking up from his phone.

Sarah, clearly exasperated, snatched the microphone Michelle had inexplicably produced. “My deepest romantic desire,” she declared, her voice ringing out, “is to find someone who understands that beige is not a neutral, it’s a statement! And that statement is usually ‘I have given up on life’!” She glared pointedly at Mark’s beige sweater.

Mark whimpered.

Fiona from HR then stood up, her face a mask of professional irritation. “My ideal Sunday involves absolutely no unsolicited advice, no gluten, and certainly no discussions of mythical creatures or sartorial offences. I prefer efficiency and compliance.”

It was then that Chloe, who had finally shown up, took Michelle aside. “Mich,” she said gently, but firmly. “I think… I think you need to stop.”

Michelle gasped, clutching her chest dramatically. “Stop? Chloe, how can you ask me to abandon these poor, misguided souls on the precipice of their own happiness?”

“Because you’re making them miserable, honey,” Chloe said, gesturing vaguely at the room where David was now openly reading his book, Kevin was arguing with the potted plant, and Sarah was demonstrating to Fiona the emotional nuances of different shade cards. “Brenda is terrified of Kevin, Mark is afraid of Sarah, Sarah is afraid of everyone’s fashion choices, and Fiona is just… Fiona.”

Michelle looked around, truly seeing the chaos for the first time, albeit through her own dramatic lens. “They’re… they’re resisting my genius,” she whispered, her lower lip trembling. “They are sabotaging their own destiny!” A single, dramatic tear rolled down her cheek. “I am a prophet in a land of emotional philistines!”

Chloe sighed, pulling Michelle into a hug. “Maybe,” she said, “just maybe, some people just want to figure things out for themselves. Or maybe they just want to be left alone.”

Michelle pulled back, a flicker of something new in her eyes. Not defeat, but a dawning, far more insidious realisation. “You know,” she said slowly, thoughtfully. “Perhaps my methods were too… pedestrian. Too focused on mere romance. What if their true calling isn’t love, but something grander? Something involving… redecorating? This café, for instance, the lighting is utterly criminal. And beige? Chloe, we have a crisis on our hands!”

Chloe smiled wanly. “Oh, Mich.”

The “Lonely Heart’s Club” mixer officially disbanded an hour later, with most attendees fleeing before Michelle could launch into a detailed critique of the café’s interior design choices. Brenda went back to her spreadsheets, Kevin returned to his gaming, Mark found a new, beige-free corner in the office, and Sarah started a new Instagram page dedicated to lambasting bad interior aesthetics. David, to everyone’s surprise, actually struck up a conversation with one of the café baristas about her favourite obscure documentaries, completely unprompted by Michelle.

Michelle, however, was already deep into her next grand project. Armed with a Pinterest board titled “Dramatic Home Transformations” and an unwavering belief in her own impeccable taste, she declared to Chloe, over a cappuccino with too much foam, “They weren’t lonely, Chloe! Not in that way! They were aesthetically unfulfilled! And who better to guide them to true beauty than I, Mich, the visionary of style? My next endeavour, darling, shall be ‘Michelle’s Interior Design Intervention League!’”

Chloe just nodded, took a long sip of her drink, and quickly checked her phone for any new, unsolicited group texts. She knew, with the certainty of long-suffering friendship, that Michelle’s dramatic, well-intentioned, and utterly misguided helpfulness was far from over. The universe, it seemed, was content to let Michelle continue her one-woman show, while everyone else quietly got on with their lives, often finding love, or at least a decent documentary.

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Ben Macnair is an award-winning poet and playwright from Staffordshire in the United Kingdom.