Breadcrumbs and Bullsh*t
Honestly, it's kind of impressive that a man managed to disappoint me without us ever actually meeting.
How is that even possible, you ask?
I'd been speaking to this man on and off for about a year and a half. At first, he was enthusiastic. Flirty messages. "We should FaceTime." "When am I seeing you?" The kind of consistency that convinces you someone might actually own a calendar.
Travelling from London to Birmingham was, apparently, the equivalent of asking this man to cross the Atlantic in a rowboat. Sending flirty messages? Effortless. Following more girls on Instagram? A breeze. Booking a train? Now, let's not be unreasonable.
The worst part? I convinced myself every single one of his excuses was totally valid.
He didn't reply because he was "busy working," yet somehow found the time to upload numerous mirror selfies and follow ten new people on Instagram. A remarkable level of productivity, really.
Dear Future Love, I Hope You’re Worth the Wait
People say destiny is romantic.
That the inexplicable force pulling two people together after years of heartbreak and endless searching is beautiful. That somewhere, written in the stars, is the person you’re destined to spend your life with.
I disagree.
The idea that fate has already decided my love story doesn’t feel romantic to me.
Do you know what I think is romantic?
The idea that one day, completely uninfluenced by destiny or some cosmic plan, a man will look at me and choose me.
Out of roughly four billion women on this planet…
He chooses me.
Now that’s romantic.
How Hinge Dates turned into Exchange Rates
I’ll preface this article by assuring you I’m not out of my mind; I’m just a girl who’s very skilled at rationalising her delusion.
God forbid a woman have a little optimism.
But yes, you heard me right: Europe did, in fact, get an invite to my Hinge dates. While to some, these spontaneous trips may look irrational, like I accidentally mixed up data roaming with date roaming, to me, they helped me connect with a version of myself I’ve always wanted to know.
At that point, choosing what to do after university felt like staring at a Ryanair departures board after too many Aperol Spritzes: too many options, none entirely sensible, and I was convinced a spontaneous flight would solve everything.
It didn’t. But maybe it was a good start.
I Support Women’s Rights. So Why Do I Still Need a Man to Fancy Me?
I could tell you exactly how many men looked at me on a night out with the girls. Not because I have Spidey senses or I’m particularly observant, but because I was conducting a real-time self-performance review. Every time a man glanced in my direction, I was ready to forgive every minor inconvenience life had ever thrown at me.
It’s deeply embarrassing.
Dating apps have only amplified the problem by turning validation into a metric: every like, every comment, every match is another insatiable dopamine hit. It’s only when I stop to actually check my likes that I realise Bartholomew, the grave robber, probably isn’t my type.
Limerence: Sponsored by My Own Imagination
Why is it that my one-month situationship emotionally crippled me more than a four-year relationship?
The answer is potential.
When you go through the stages of a long-term relationship, the initial potential eventually becomes clear. You either exceed it or fall painfully short of it. Either way, reality comes knocking.
But when a budding romance gets cut short, that potential is left on delivered.
Your imagination takes over, directing a torturous highlight reel of hypothetical best moments. Your first holiday. Your engagement in the Italian countryside. Your wedding in the South of France. Three children and a golden retriever called Max.