This is part 2 of this story. If you haven’t read part one yet, click here.

I took a sip of my coffee, as did the girls. Fuel for what they’re about to endure. I took a deep breath and began to tell them about our first hiccup.

A few days had passed since our date at The Little Violet Door. I had just left the cinema and tried to text and call Dublin because we had plans to meet after the movie, but it wouldn’t go through, and after a while, our meeting time had passed. I knew he was out with his friends, and that he’d probably got sidetracked. So I hopped on the tube and made my way back to Fulham; by then, I was annoyed. I’d spoken about how excited I was to see him tonight to my friends, and to him, but he still hadn’t responded. Eventually, he called me, but I let it ring out. I texted him that I was making my way home because he hadn’t responded; then eventually he asked…

‘Can you come to London Bridge?’

‘Yes,’ I reluctantly replied, ‘where exactly should I meet you?’

Another twenty minutes went by with no response.

‘Have a good night :)’, I texted. He called again. But it was too little too late; I was home, and I went to bed.

The next morning was strange. When I reflected on the night, I wasn’t angry at the situation; I just felt stupid. Stupid that I was excited to see him that night, embarrassed that I’d hyped him up to all of my friends, and he just left me hanging, enjoying his night too much to prioritise me. I felt stupid because it had officially only been two weeks, and I felt so betrayed, so let down by a guy that I hadn’t known for that long, but felt like I knew forever. Mostly, it reminded me of a version of me I’d been before, waiting around to be prioritised. And I hated that; I hated that I gave someone the power to make me feel like the 23-year-old me again.

“But didn’t he say to you that night, ‘Let me know when you finish cinema, and I’ll see where I’m at’?, I did tell you that wasn’t right; he should be happy that you were making an effort to go and meet him; he shouldn’t have had you ‘pending’. You had plans.” That's the thing about friends: they remember the details you sometimes can forget, and she’s right.

He did say that to me, but at the time, I didn’t see it as a possibility that we wouldn’t meet, because we’d already agreed to it, and he said how excited he was to see me for days. But I don’t argue; I just nod and continue. What really got me was the lack of urgency from him the next day; in my eyes, he fucked up and disrespected my time, so I was expecting an apology, some type of gesture to explain where last night had gone wrong. But instead, his text read,

‘I don’t feel I’d done anything wrong; you can call me if you want to talk about it.’ I was shocked.

How can you stand someone up and not feel bad? It was the first time I’d seen a side of him that I didn’t like, that I couldn’t understand. The guy I’d been dating over the last few weeks seemed so attentive, so caring towards my feelings; was it all a lie? I asked myself. For the first time in three weeks, I could feel the cold air on my skin; the bubble had burst, and I was faced with the reality of how this man handled conflict, with little care and silence.

“I never would have expected that,” the waitress said, pouring us yet another cup of coffee.

“Me neither; I was well and truly gob-smacked. And before I knew it, the whole weekend had passed, and it was time for my Sunday tennis lesson,” I said as I took a sip of my fresh, hot coffee.

“And you didn’t see each other, or hear from him all weekend?” They all leaned in, eager to hear what happened next.

And that was the right assumption. I hadn’t seen or heard from him all weekend, which built up a disappointment in me that I hadn’t felt in a long time. It forced me to text him on Saturday night about how I really felt…

‘I think the mismatch in handling this situation is enough for me to be done.’ I sent the text.

And then radio silence, until I got a reply at 2 pm the next day, where he also ended things and wished me the best.

“Wait, so he took almost a day to get back to you, and that was his reply- where was the fight? Where was the apology? What was he even doing?” My friends asked. I knew exactly what he was doing; he told me eventually that he was out in Soho until 3 am with a friend. But I wasn’t going to tell my friends that; I knew that this story was disappointing enough. As I said, it was the next day, and I was at my tennis lesson. I replayed his message enough times in my head to get worked up again, and though I swore to myself I was done, that he’d shown me his true colours- I texted him…

‘You’re just really fake then, I guess.’ I snapped.

‘How?’ a one-word reply, lovely.

I tried to focus on my tennis lesson, but I was so annoyed, so upset that I kept missing the balls. How could this be the same person I was in a trance with a few days before, whose kisses made me feel we were in our own world. Surely he couldn’t switch up that quickly; how can he act like that and then act like this a few days later? Eventually, after the lesson had ended and I Lime biked home, calmed down a little and texted back. I said that the last two weeks must have been fake, because if this was the other way around, I would have tried to fix things if he was upset with me, and that he didn’t handle me with that care. I was so sure I was done, so sure that this was the end. But after hours of back and forth, we came to a resolution. He took the time to understand where I was coming from, and I said, I asked, if he didn’t have the capacity to give me that level of understanding, to handle me in the way I need, then that’s fine; we can go our separate ways. But he promised that he understood I need a man who fights for it, who can put his pride aside initially to make sure I’m okay. He said he had that in him; he said…

‘Cigarettes After Sex came on earlier, and I read your new Substack. Hope you don’t turn into the girl I once spent the best 2 weeks ever with, and now I just periodically read all her Substack posts about her dating life and get reminded of falling asleep in her bed after an amazing date anytime I hear the band play…’

“Wow,” the girls said, snapping me out of the trance and back to reality. The hissing of the coffee machine grounded me, as well as the busy chirping of the cafe.

“I know, it’s like he knew exactly what to say in that moment.” I looked down at my manicure again, then back up at the girls. I’d tried to avoid their faces for much of the catch-up; I hate seeing them pity me.

“Well, how did you feel about everything after he said that… how did you really feel?” my friend asked.

How can I explain to them that I was so October about him. That for the first time in a long time I felt like there might actually be a man out there who can understand me, who had the emotional depth to make me feel seen. But instead I said that I stood my ground; I didn’t let his words get to me, not yet. Not until he said…

‘Let me take you out on Friday, and you’ll see a different side of me I haven’t shown in a while'. He began to sound like the man I was falling for again. But I had plans this weekend; I was going away to a festival, and when I told him that, he said…

‘Well, what day can you do- tonight, tomorrow, any day before you go away, or all of them?’

The girls gasp, one slightly spilling her coffee on my shoe.

I know, the switch-up was crazy. I couldn’t believe it. Did he actually understand where I was coming from? Did he actually have the man I needed in him like he said he did?

‘I’m only free tonight,’ I texted.

‘If I leave in five, I can be there in forty minutes,’ he replied.

‘But don’t you have work early tomorrow morning? I wouldn’t want you to do that,’ but I hoped he would.

‘I’ll just come and sleep next to you for five hours before I leave for work; we can fall asleep to Cigarettes After Sex.’

Forty minutes later he was at my front door. I opened it slowly and stepped to the side to let him come in. He put one hand on my hip and pulled me in for a kiss. It felt good to kiss him after everything; I almost felt relieved. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t still feel some tension between us; I’m sure he did too. But there was just something about being around him that relaxed me, calmed me even. Cas played in the background, I turned off the lights, and slipped into bed beside him. He raised my chin up and started to kiss me slowly. I could feel my eyes roll back; his kisses felt so good to me. The tension grew, but regardless, I knew from the moment I saw him walk through the door that I wanted to be as close to him as possible. But this time it felt different; it was less romantic, less substantial. I couldn’t tell if it was because I was still annoyed at him, if he was still annoyed at me, or both. When he left the next morning, he said he needed to see me again before I went away for the weekend, that he wanted to. I was sure I wanted to see him again too, though last night felt different. But he drove across the city to sleep next to me for five hours before having to drive two hours to work in the morning, I told myself. Someone who does that is sure about you; someone who does that is intentional. At least, that’s what I tried to convince myself.

See you next Sunday for the final part x

I sat at the table waiting for the girls to arrive. I looked down at my freshly manicured nails, which were the only thing making me feel good about myself right now. See, I’d just turned thirty, well, in the spring. And I spent much of this summer dating a whole new pool of men, mostly younger men. At first it was just a bit of fun; I found that they worked harder to try to impress me, to woo me, and it was flattering to have a twenty-five-year-old piggyback me across Parsons Green into a busy pub. But eventually, one of those twenty-five-year-olds stuck, well, stuck in a way most men never get the chance to with me. It was a whirlwind, too-good-to-be-true type of connection; inevitability, it was too good to be true, and now I’m sat here mentally preparing to tell my best friends that yet another one bites the dust, that it ended before it properly became anything, despite how much they were rooting for this one.

Gosh, how many times can a woman become a different version of herself because of some man, some disappointment, some almost-something?

When they eventually arrived, and we exchanged other life updates and pleasantries, they leaned in wide-eyed, ready to hear the update about Dublin, but it wouldn’t make sense unless they heard the full story:

I looked down at the Hinge conversation from a man who’d given me his number a few days ago, but it was another pending date with no actual plan. I wasn’t in the mood to entertain uncertainty. I’d just ended a talking stage with Essex; I was burnt out from my move and in a foul mood in general, so I knew I couldn’t handle another disappointment.

‘Hey, I’ve had a heavy week, and I’m not sure I have the capacity for a maybe see you soon vibe. Best of luck.’ I messaged.

‘Well, this is my number. I’ve booked this place in London Bridge for tomorrow at 7 pm, text me if you’re up for it, and I’ll be there,’ he replied.

It’s usually the type of message that would make me smile; a proactive man is a hot commodity in modern dating, only because the bar is literally on the floor. But with how I was feeling, the constant disappointment, the letdowns, I just didn’t have it in me to say yes. So instead I said:

‘That’s cute, thank you. But I don’t think I can make it.’

‘That’s a shame. Let me know if you change your mind; if not, I’ll see you when I’m back from Dublin.’

The next day came around and flew by; before I knew it, it was 4 pm, my flatmate was getting ready for her own date, and I was sitting on the sofa re-watching the last episode of The Summer I Turned Pretty for the one millionth time. Fomo began to creep in as I saw my flatmate put on a cute outfit, ready to sit across a candlelit table drinking wine with a cute guy. So I grabbed my phone and replied to Dublin.

‘Hey, I’m down to meet, but could you come to Fulham?’ I wasn’t sure what I was expecting; I’d already said no to meet, and it was late in the day, but maybe a drink with a stranger was exactly what I needed to get me out of this funk.

‘Yes, I can come to Fulham. I can book this beer garden at 7 because the weather’s good, if that works for you?’ he replied within minutes.

‘That works for me, see you there at 7.’

I don’t know what I expected when I met him, or if I even expected anything at all. But when I first walked towards him in the pub garden, when I first locked eyes with him, my cheeks were warm, my palms were slightly clammy, and I felt flustered, which is not something that usually happens to me. His blonde hair was slicked back, his cheeks were rosy, and his eyes were blue. He kissed me on my cheek, and I slid into the seat opposite him and took a sip of the white wine with ice that he’d ordered for me. It was one of those first dates that don’t feel like you’re on a date once you’ve settled in. The ones where the conversation flows, you don’t have to think, you forget that they make you a little nervous until they go back to the bar to order another round. If I’ve learned anything about dating, these connections on a first date were rare, especially for me.

We spoke about our families and the mistakes that they’d made, and we swore we’d never make them with our person; we talked about our passions and what we like to do in our spare time. We spoke about our friends and how much we cared about them. And with every detail we learned about each other, and every other sip I took of the wine, I found myself making eye contact for longer, being drawn closer to him until eventually, it felt like something locked into place.

“Onto the next place?” he asked, taking the last sip of his beer.

“Yeah, I think let’s walk to Parsons Green, and we can choose from the holy trio.”

I’d sworn to myself that I’d stop taking my dates to Parsons Green because, well, the workers at the pub had started to notice me, especially because I was a regular, but maybe also because I’d brought more than a few dates to the holy trio. We ended up at the quieter pub of them all, the one my flatmate and I label the couples pub, because that’s exactly what everyone who goes there seems to be. I’d be lying if I said I remembered our conversation fluently. But I do remember that I couldn’t stop wishing he’d kiss me. He’d looked at my lips several times, making the upside-down triangle between my eyes and mouth, his blue eyes reflecting off the candlelight. The pub was closing, and we were forced out. We made our way across the green but stopped halfway.

“I love the stars,” I said, looking up at the few unaffected by the light pollution.

“Me too. I love stargazing; we do it back home in Ireland,” he said as he held my hand and pulled me into him.

And then slowly, underneath the stars, and on the green in between the holy trio, we had our first kiss. It was slow, intimate, the type of kiss that makes the world around you a little fuzzy. How can a first kiss feel this good? I thought. Before I knew it, we were back at mine, kissing, touching, tumbling all around my bedroom.

He spent the night.

We woke up the next morning in a tangle to his early alarm.

“I really don’t want to leave,” he said in his thick Irish accent.

I don’t want you to leave, I thought, but I didn’t say it; I just smiled.

“Can I please take you to dinner?” he asked for the third time. I nodded, agreed reluctantly, thinking that he was probably putting on a front, that we had a really good date, but I’d probably never hear from him again, or worse, I would, and the connection would die a slow, emotionless death anyway. But despite that fear, I still felt really happy; I finally felt something again. I finally had a connection, a deep connection with someone. So regardless of whether we ever saw each other again, I got the reminder I needed from it. But five minutes after he left, I got a text.

‘Hi, I really enjoyed my time with you. I’d love to take you out to dinner; please let me know what days you’re free.’ I grabbed my phone tightly to my chest and smiled. Maybe he felt the spark too.

Before I knew it, we were dating. One day he waited outside my flat with his car door open to take me to a nice restaurant on King’s Road; the next day we sat in Battersea Park and ate his favourite pizza from Ally Cats while a kids’ party where they’d paid someone to be Spider-Man swarmed us. Between the constant communication, consistent dates, and intimacy, we’d gotten close, very quickly.

“That sounds all good,” my best friend says, snapping me back to the breakfast pancakes that I let get cold while telling this story. “But didn’t you mention a red flag during this time?”

“Yes, yes, so. He updated his Hinge profile after our first date, because, you know, he flew home to Dublin or whatever, and he updated his profile there.” I almost choke on my now-dry pancake as the words come out of my mouth.

“And then again when he got back, he updated a picture, but how can you do that after such an intense time with someone, so quickly?” She makes a good point.

“Guys, let’s remember that I was also dating other people. And he’d done that after our first… and second date. We’d only known each other for like, 5/6 days,” and while that’s a true and fair argument, it didn’t make the red flag any less bright.

Okay, so where was I? Ah yes. Battersea Park, our third date. We sat on the dry grass, ate pizza, drank wine, and spoke for hours; he’d told me he'd passed a poetry van and thought of me, that he was going to go back to pick something up but didn’t want to run late to meet me. That was the first time he’d hit a nerve, triggering a pet peeve of mine: saying you were going to do something and never actually doing it. Which was funny because a few days before that, after dinner, he came back to mine again. We kissed and did everything in between, and when we were lying there, we spoke about what our love languages were. We’d realised that mine were all five, and the only one he hadn’t ticked off yet was giving me a gift.

“Would you ever let me cut your hair?” I asked while running my fingers through his blonde locks as we lay on my bed.

“Yeah, I would,” he said confidently.

“No, you wouldn’t; you’d let me cut your hair like Conrad Fisher from The Summer I Turned Pretty?” I asked, shooting up with excitement and disbelief. It's 1 am. He sat on my chair in front of my mirror, and I got to work. There is something so weirdly intimate about cutting a guy your datings hair. It was only our second date; it was early hours, and we both had work early the next morning, and him kissing me and supporting all of the awkward layers I was giving him with the blunt scissors- it felt special.

It had now only been 10 days, and 3 dates in. We were on a roll. So much so that the intensity got to me a little. I didn’t expect this random Hinge date that I was so reluctant to go on a date with to have an impact on me, on my feelings. Things felt good, and as someone who is independent and a designated proud man hater, I was conflicted with the thoughts and feelings I had about this one. But there's quite a comfort in finding a spark with someone; when you’re with them, it’s easy to forget the world, and that's exactly what happened on our fourth date…

“I am obsessed with Cigarettes After Sex now, that song-”

“Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby?” I asked

“Yes, the intro to that song is so us”, he said as he took a bite of the sushi. He’d booked us a table at Tattu. It was a cute restaurant; it reminded me of LA. He got there a little bit before I did; I walked up to him in my kitten heels, white dress, and slicked-back bun. He wore a black suit because he came from work in the city; his hair was styled floppy and fluffy, just how I liked it, and his blue shirt brought out the blue in his eyes. As we walked to the table, he put on his glasses to show me the full look; it was giving performative, and I ate it up. We sat and spoke more about my favourite band, and the simple things we wanted to do with each other. We knew we were on borrowed time that night because I had an early morning meeting, and so did he. That meant when dinner finished, we weren’t ready for the night to end and to go our separate ways. So, we ended up at The Little Violet Door, using my flatmate card to secure a table by the Nintendo 64. We played Mario Kart as I leaned on him, his arms wrapped around my shoulder. After a few games, we just sat; I sipped my wine, he sipped his beer, and in that moment, it felt like something had shifted. I’d never looked into someone’s eyes like that before, for long enough for the world to stop, for it to feel like you’re the only two left in the bar, like you’re in a trance. He leaned in for a kiss, and I swear that’s a kiss I’ll never be able to forget.

“So what happened after? Did he come back to yours?” My friend asked.

“Nope, eventually I realised how deeply we were staring into each other’s souls, and that others could see it too, so we snapped out of it and tried our best to act like normal humans who weren’t falling for each other”, I said.

“How do you know he felt the same? That he was falling for you too?” my other friend asked. Which was a good question, because based on how things turned out, I’ve questioned that too, but instead of over-explaining, I just said: “You can’t look at someone like that if you’re not falling for them.”

The next episode

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He came wearing an old t-shirt, a backpack, and banged-up trainers, exactly what I expected from dating someone like him, completely different to the London boy aesthetic I was used to, and I liked it. I was so nervous as we sat opposite each other; his blue eyes pierced my brown ones, his tanned arms covered in blonde hair were shining in the sun, and he had the most endearing smile. He ordered for us, as tacos aren’t something I’d usually get, and we sat and spoke about our lives. There was something so romantic about sitting opposite someone who lives on the other side of the world, telling them all the little details about your life, and watching them become more and more intrigued in real time. It felt intimate, real. We sat and spoke for hours. I tried to eat as much of the taco as possible, but I was way to nervous and distracted watching him messily eat his, staining the corner of his mouth and fingers with each bite, and interrupting himself with, “This is so good, you should have a bite”.

Sitting across from each other, the light breeze hitting us as the hot day began to cool, the Mexican band starting to play live music, it felt like I was on a movie set, like how can a girl from London be sat in Santa Monica with this handsome man? But I was.

“You’re so beautiful” he said, “I’ve never been on a date with a woman like you before, I was shocked that you said yes, honestly”, he continued. And I could tell by his tone, the way he looked at me with such gratitude for my time, that he was being authentic. That he was genuinely, a lovely guy.

He got the cheque, and we made our way towards the Venice canals, several mini stretches of water surrounded by huge houses. He stopped and held my bag to get pictures of me; we brushed each other’s hands, then held it, then brushed it again. We stopped to watch people walk by, and others rode on their boats, and I remember thinking, please just kiss me already; this is the perfect place for it. But he just looked into my eyes, leaned in, and kissed my cheek. I remember thinking how bad I didn’t want the date to end. That I could replay this day over and over again.

After a few hours, I began to notice the little things about him. The way he smiled with the left side of his mouth before fully committing, the way he liked to touch things he walked by. I remember thinking, ‘This is a date I’ll never forget’. Eventually we made our way down to Venice Beach, and picked a cute spot near the water to watch the sunset. He opened his packback and pulled out all of the essentials we needed; he packed us both a towel, snacks, and water. ‘How thoughtful,’ I thought as we sat on the towels and he fed me grapes.

We were sat there for hours, so long that the breeze from the ocean damped my fresh blow-out and forced my curls to show. I started to shiver in my dress, and he took out a hoodie from his backpack that he brought just in case I got cold. Shades of pink, blue, and orange lit the sky, and we couldn’t stop repeating how magical the night felt. He wouldn’t stop complimenting me and looking into my eyes, and then, finally, he kissed me.

Suddenly, it felt like my favourite band was playing in my ears, like no one else was on that beach, and the sunset was a paid actor. Eventually, we left the beach and made our way back to my rental car, where we sat and people-watched in this fancy little neighbourhood, talking about our future, and placing each other in small parts. “I’ll be back in LA soon,” I promised. “Well, I’m coming to Europe soon too, to see my family; London isn’t that far away,” he reassured. But deep down we knew that it was highly likely that, despite how magnetic our connection felt and how intense our chemistry was, this could be the last time we saw each other, but that didn’t stop us from hoping.

While it’s so rare to meet someone and click so well, to have such a romantic first date, one that you will remember for the rest of your life, it’s not impossible. This was a very real experience, like the way you randomly get a free coffee one day at a cafe, or when all the traffic lights turn green while you’re driving somewhere in a rush. It was a right time, right place kind of thing, and when you have that in you, that level of love and romance to give, it’s only a matter of time before it finds you again.

Even if that is never something you’ve experienced before.

If you have the capacity for epic romance, it also has the capacity for you.

And almost one year on, my friends still ask me about the LA guy; they still mention all the little details and how epic and exciting it sounded to them. And it felt that way for me too. It was the type of connection that would still give you butterflies when you remember it on a random Sunday, and he was the type of date you’d think of when you’re feeling a little lonely on a Friday night.

But as someone who naturally romanticises life (I am a romance writer after all), I also need to remind myself that a lot of these epic romances I have are also because of me, because I see the details in people, I notice the small things, and read into moments before they get a chance to mean something. And that’s not a bad thing, because in doing that, these experiences are very real. And I know that I have the capacity for an epic love.

So I share this story say, that you are the romance. This experience was so special because I noticed all the small things. And that you have the power to do the same in the right circumstance, with the right person. You are that thing that makes the connections you have feel epic, you make it profound. And it’s something that can be recreated when the time, and the place is aligned.

Thank you for reading. I have more on this story so if you’d like a second part of this article let me know!

I was dating someone recently, and for the first time in a long time, I started to fall for someone again. It feels silly to say that now that it’s over. Silly to have ever liked someone enough to allow myself to feel safe enough to begin to fall, knowing that at some point he might not be there to catch me, which is exactly what happened.

But then it got me thinking about everything we risk when the possibility of something profound is on the horizon.

What we risk for love.

Firstly, finding a mutual connection that has the potential to ever be something is rare. Being equally obsessed with each other. Feeling that spark when your hands brush against one another. The butterflies when you look into their sea blue eyes, lost in a trance while you’re sat in a bar surrounded by strangers, but you swear it feels like it’s just you two. There is something so intoxicating about being wanted by someone you want just as much.

To feel like the feeling isn’t one-sided. To not have to question whether they enjoyed the date as much as you did, because you can see it in the way they look at you. To feel their excitement when your name appears on their phone. To know that when you go home and replay the evening in your head, there is a good chance they are doing exactly the same.

And that is where the risk begins. Because the moment something starts to feel real, you have something to lose.

You start telling them things you don’t usually tell people. The strange little things you do when you’re alone. You let someone become familiar with you. And familiarity is intimate.

Maybe that’s one of the biggest things we risk for the potential of love. Not just our hearts, but our privacy. Our independence. The carefully constructed version of ourselves that we try so hard to protect. Because to really let someone in means allowing them to know you well enough to hurt you.

And that fear of being hurt starts the moment you realise you care. The moment their actions begin to matter, because one misstep, one slip-up, can hurt you. That’s when you know that they’ve become more than just a person you’re dating; they’ve become a possibility, and possibilities are dangerous because they are so easy to fall in love with. You don’t just fall for the person in front of you. You fall for everything they could become in your life.

The Sunday mornings.

The holidays.

The dinners.

The inside jokes that haven’t happened yet.

The friends you’ve told them about and are so excited to introduce.

The places you haven’t gone.

You start building memories before you’ve even made them.

We meet someone new and, despite every lesson we’ve learned, despite every person who came before them, we allow ourselves to wonder if this could be different. We tell ourselves we’re going to take it slowly this time. We’re not going to get attached too quickly. We’re going to protect our hearts. We’re going to watch their actions. We’re going to stay grounded.

And then they look at us a certain way, and suddenly all of those rules become much harder to follow.

Because being vulnerable with someone is one of the most intimate things you can be. To open yourself up, to share the thoughts you usually keep to yourself, to let someone see the parts of you that you don’t show everyone, and to trust that all of it is safe with them. There is a quiet kind of surrender in that. You’re trusting someone with the parts of you that could hurt the most if they were ever mishandled.

We risk rejection. We risk embarrassment. We risk looking foolish. We risk being the one who cared more. We risk being vulnerable with someone who might not know what to do with our vulnerability. We risk making someone important who may never make us important in the same way. We risk being disappointed.

And perhaps the biggest risk of all is that we risk changing ourselves.

Because when something ends badly enough, it can alter the way you approach everything that comes after it. You become more guarded. You question more. You hold back the thing you really want to say because you remember what happened the last time you said it. You stop allowing yourself to get excited because excitement now feels like the beginning of disappointment. You become suspicious of good things because you’ve learned they can disappear.

But despite everything falling for someone asks us to risk, we still want it.

We still want to meet someone and feel that feeling. We still want the butterflies. We still want the sea blue eyes staring at you from across a crowded bar. We still want someone to reach for our hand. We still want someone to know the small details about us. We still want someone to remember the story we told them once and bring it up six months later. We still want someone who notices when we’re quiet. Someone who knows when something is wrong before we’ve said it. Someone who can make an ordinary Tuesday feel like something worth remembering.

And maybe that’s because, underneath all of the fear, we know that the risk of love could be the greatest reward.

The new Netflix romcom Voicemails for Isabelle did just that, while also paying homage to the classic story of a yearning man falling hopelessly in love, which we all secretly adore.

But Voicemails for Isabelle went one step further. It didn’t just show us a classic romcom love story, it reminded us how profound platonic love can be too. Here are the love lessons everyone should take away from the movie.

When one door closes, another one opens…

It almost doesn’t feel right to say out loud, but in losing Isabelle, Jill found Wes.

The reality is that sometimes we lose things to make room for something new. And yes, the two things aren’t mutually exclusive. Isabelle didn’t have to die for Jill and Wes to meet. But the depth of their relationship was only possible because Wes received the intimate voicemails that were meant for Isabelle after she passed away.

That level of intimacy is something usually reserved for a sister. Reserved for someone who already knows your depth, your quirks, your habits, your flaws. Which means Wes would never have met the version of Jill he fell so deeply in love with had he never received those voicemails.

A silver lining, maybe. But definitely fate at play.

Making lemonade out of lemons

It’s a classic line we’ve all heard countless times. When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. Turning something sour into something sweet.

That’s exactly what Jill did with the pain of losing her sister.

From her loss, she saw the importance of life. She realised that you shouldn’t take life for granted because some people never even get the chance to live the one they imagined. She didn’t see a life that wasn’t worth living because she’d lost one of her greatest loves. She understood that life had to be lived because of that, for her.

She still left her voicemails. She still shared all the little details she knew Isabelle would want to hear. The dates she’d have an opinion on. The stories she’d laugh at.

She didn’t care that she wouldn’t get a response. She didn’t care that Isabelle couldn’t hear her anymore.

All she cared about was continuing to share her life with her sister.

Sometimes that’s all love really wants to do.

Believing in fate, and how lucky you are to be here

We often only feel lucky during the big moments. Taking that dream trip. Buying something expensive we’ve wanted for years.

But rarely do we stop and appreciate how lucky we are simply to exist.

How lucky you are to be in this timeline, with these people, living this version of your life.

How lucky you are if you have a family that loves you, and that you love.

These are the things that came to us so naturally that we forget how extraordinary they really are.

When Jill stood up at her sister’s funeral, her love radiating through every word, she said:

“What are the chances in all of space and time that Isabelle was alive with me. Not only did I meet her, but we got to eat pancakes.”

The moments many of us would call ordinary are often the moments we miss the most once the person we shared them with is gone.

So the next time you’re in one of those ordinary moments, slow down.

Look around.

Smell the pancakes.

Feel the love.

Remember how lucky you are to be here.

Doing something for someone when they’ve only mentioned it once

What a love language that is.

The intimacy of remembering.

When Jill made Wes the chicken pot pie with cornbread crust, just like his mother used to make, it reminded us that she’s a big sister. That she listens. That she notices. That she cares.

Watching him take his first bite, close his eyes, disappear into a memory, then open them again and look at her as though he loved her for the first time was a moment that went far beyond intimacy.

They said a million things to each other without saying anything at all.

That’s the kind of connection that’s written about in books and played out on our screens.

It reminds us that when someone really listens to you, when someone remembers the smallest detail you’ve forgotten you ever shared, it’s one of the purest ways they can love you.

It’s all in the way he looks at you

They say it’s all in the eyes. That the eyes never lie.

And that’s especially true when someone is in love.

“His eyes softened,” we writers always say.

We saw it in the way Conrad Fisher looked at Belly in The Summer I Turned Pretty. Every glance, every conversation, every look carried a softness that words never quite could.

The same can be said for Wes from the moment Jill walked into the room.

There’s a vulnerability in his eyes. Almost as though he’s frightened by what comes next. Lost in the uncertainty that arrives when you unexpectedly fall for someone.

But that look gives you an unspoken certainty.

Because when someone looks at you like that, how can it not feel like love?

And it wasn’t just Wes.

We saw it in the slower conversations between Jill and Isabelle as Isabelle became sicker.

Their eyes softened too.

A beautiful reminder that this kind of love isn’t only reserved for romance.

Wes leaving Isabelle the voicemail

The final lesson maybe isn’t a lesson at all.

Maybe it’s an antidote for love.

You deserve someone who understands you behind closed doors.

Not performatively through buying flowers because other people will see them. Not through grand gestures designed to be posted online.

But someone who can love you behind a door that’s even closed for you.

When Wes left that voicemail for Isabelle asking for her blessing, he wasn’t doing it for recognition. He wasn’t doing it so Jill would think more highly of him.

She didn’t even know.

He did it because he knew that’s exactly what Jill would have wanted.

To move mountains that existed long before you arrived in someone’s life, without expecting anything in return, is one of the purest expressions of love there is.

A gesture that brings no real benefit to you, other than knowing it would mean everything to the person you love.

That type of love is rare.

It’s deep.

It’s selfless.

And I truly believe it’s the kind of love everyone deserves to experience.

Something that goes beyond a spark.

Beyond chemistry.

Beyond connection.

Something that exists beyond words, and can only really be understood as a feeling.

That’s true love.

So while Voicemails for Isabelle gave us a beautiful romcom about two people who needed each other finding one another, it also reminded us that love really is all around us. That the smallest moments often become the biggest ones we remember. And that perhaps the greatest love stories don’t begin with romance at all.

Sometimes, they begin with a sister.

To watch someone you’d choose over and over again walk past you as easily as the wind.

To know exactly how much space you’d make for them in your life, while they struggle to make room for you in theirs.

And that’s the part that’s difficult to understand.

Not because you’re entitled to be chosen. Not because anyone owes you their affection. But because from where you’re standing, the choice feels so obvious.

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You see their humour. Their kindness. The way they make an ordinary day feel lighter, even from afar.

You notice all the reasons they’d be worth choosing in your world. So naturally, you begin to wonder why they can’t seem to find the same reasons in you.

Maybe that’s what hurts most about not being chosen. Not the rejection itself, but the unanswered question that follows it.

The wondering.

The replaying of conversations.

The urge to search for a clue that doesn’t exist.

Because rarely does someone sit you down and explain why they didn’t choose you.

Most of the time they just don’t.

They choose someone else.

They drift away.

They stop interacting.

They become a memory.

And you’re left carrying all this affection with nowhere for it to go.

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The truth is, some of the most painful experiences in life aren’t losing people who once chose us. They’re the people we never got the chance to be chosen by in the first place.

The friend we would have shown up for forever.

The person we could have loved deeply.

The life that existed only in our imagination.

And maybe that’s why it aches so much. Because when someone doesn’t choose you, you don’t just lose the person. You lose every version of the future that might have existed with them.

But despite our thoughts and feelings around the situation, or how many times we decode their messages, or the absence of them, we can’t control people.

We can’t force people to choose us, no matter how badly we want them to. No matter how many times we put ourselves out there, or how foolish we might feel for trying again, simply because a small part of us still hopes they’ll see what we see.

And while I do believe in trying, in going after something your heart genuinely wants, there comes a point where reality has to matter more than potential.

After enough back and forth. After enough unanswered questions. After enough evidence that tells a different story to the one you’ve been holding onto.

You have to accept that not everyone you choose will choose you back.

And that’s painful.

Because sometimes they seem to be everything you hoped for. Sometimes you can see exactly how they would fit into your life. Sometimes you can picture the memories before they’ve even happened.

But constantly choosing someone who isn’t choosing you slowly teaches you the wrong lesson about yourself. It makes you question your value when your value was never the issue.

The truth is that being chosen is beautiful, but it loses its meaning when it has to be convinced.

You deserve to be chosen freely, with the same certainty and enthusiasm that you choose others.

But some chapters don’t do that.

Some chapters are just… friction.

Not dramatic enough to call a breakdown, not beautiful enough to call a breakthrough. Just a series of almosts. Almost connections. Almost plans. Almost something real, that dissolves before it forms.

And the instinct is to make meaning out of it. To turn it inward. To ask what’s wrong, what’s missing, what isn’t enough. Why was it another almost?

But not every chapter is a reflection of you. But every chapter is a reflection of the nuances in life.

Some chapters are just misaligned. Wrong timing, wrong people, wrong context. The kind of spaces where things can spark, but never settle. Where you’re seen, but not chosen. Wanted in the moment, but not pursued after. Had a great experience, but felt flat the next day.

And that doesn’t make these moments fake or any less meaningful. It just means it wasn’t built to last. And nowadays, we look to put meaning on good things that don’t last.

We’re taught to chase the good feeling. To move quickly away from anything that doesn’t affirm us. But there’s something quietly important about staying present in a chapter that doesn’t feel good, without rushing to fix it or escape it.

Because not every chapter is meant to give you what you want.

Some are there to show you what doesn’t hold. What doesn’t meet you. What doesn’t move with intention.

And the lesson isn’t too hard. It’s not to become less open, less hopeful, less romantic.

It’s to become more precise. More accepting of the nuances in life.

To stop attaching meaning too early. To stop building stories out of moments. To let things be what they are, when they are, without stretching them into something they’re not.

To meet, to feel, to experience… and then to let go.

There is a version of life where things land cleanly. Where interest becomes action. Where someone doesn’t just meet you in a moment, but chooses you beyond it.

But that version doesn’t arrive by forcing every chapter to feel good.

It arrives by moving through the ones that don’t, without losing yourself inside them.

You can hold both truths at the same time:
You can feel disappointed, low, and even a bit hopeless today,
and still have a life that’s moving forward, still have the capacity to meet someone who shows up properly, or be that person for yourself again.

The chapter that doesn’t feel good right now is more about friction than finality. It’s uncomfortable because things aren’t landing the way you want, not because your story is decided.

Not every chapter is supposed to feel good, because we all need those nuanced, in-between ones. It’s not a failure chapter, it’s not a sweep it under the rug, or drown it out chapter. It’s just a messy, unresolved one. And that’s okay.

Let it be a chapter that doesn’t feel great.
Just remember it’s exactly as it should be; it doesn’t need a meaning beyond its moment.

Don’t turn a nuanced chapter into the whole book.

Romantic love isn’t something you earn from the universe by giving or by trying to deserve it. It’s something you either experience or you don’t.

Being in the last few weeks of my twenties, I find myself naturally reflecting on what we 90’s babies were taught about love, and how it shows up in the world.

We were shown a Disney princess, defined solely by her beauty, being saved by Prince Charming, who somehow loved her beyond her looks despite barely knowing her. We watched friends turn into lovers, people fall in love at first sight in a bookstore, and a woman try to lose a man in 10 days, only for him to fall completely head over heels for her.

And despite all of that hope and optimism, love now feels further away from reality in our generation than ever.

Friends don’t turn into lovers anymore; they turn into flings. People don’t approach someone they’ve felt a spark with after locking eyes across a bookstore; they swipe on Hinge. And women don’t try to lose a good man in 10 days; in fact, it’s hard to keep consistent communication for 10 days without second-guessing every step.

And it’s such a shame that a generation that grew up so hopeful about love is now so cynical of it. That instead of approaching love boldly and openly, it’s approached in careful steps, shaped by the fear of choosing someone who might embarrass or disappoint you.

This is the paradox of the modern generation, probably the most active generation in seeking love, swiping through countless faces a day, yet still struggling to find something real.

We could blame the swiping, the endless options, but regardless of quantity, quality can only be felt in person. And even when that quality is there, when the spark is real, when the chemistry is alive, and the connection feels different, more often than not, it still falls through.

So maybe we’re an in-between generation. A generation that gets to experience countless short-lived connections, almost somethings, but rarely anything lasting. Maybe it’s the result of being so connected, yet somehow still so far apart.

And yes, it feels cruel. To get countless likes on dating apps one day, but no real, intentional conversations. To meet someone and feel a genuine spark, only for it not to become anything more than a fleeting moment. To feel like you have so much love to give, but nowhere for it to go.

Maybe, just maybe, love in the way we were raised to believe in it, in the way we saw it on our screens and heard about growing up, doesn’t exist for most people anymore.

And instead of being afraid of that possibility, maybe we just need to accept that love doesn’t knock on everyone’s door.

A strange paradox it is to crave love while fearing disappointment, when the two so often go hand in hand.

Hope, the mother of all feelings. When we’re sad, we hope to feel happy again, and when we’re happy, we hope that the happiness will last forever. Hope is the bridge between all feelings, good or bad. It serves as a comfort, “don’t worry, it will feel better soon”, or reassurance when things are going well, and you say, “hopefully it continues.”

It’s a fundamental part of most conversations, most plans, most directions in life: being hopeful.

Hope is also the feeling that keeps us going when we’re in pursuit of love. Hoping that it will finally work out with this person. Hoping that they feel the same way about you. Hoping that they see you the way you see them. Hoping that they also recognise the potential in what you’re sharing, no matter how small or short it may be.

But the reality of modern dating is that hope can be fleeting.

You can have a profound connection with someone, the type of connection you’ve never felt before. Maybe it’s the way in which they told you that they feel calmer whenever you’re around them, and that said it with such certainty, such reassurance. Or how the two of you can look directly into each other’s eyes without it feeling awkward.

And in those moments, hope begins to build.
Hope for a future.
Hope that the feeling is mutual.
Hope that this person is going to stay.

But the next day could be the last day you ever speak again.

Despite the feeling.
Despite that special shared experience, and despite them looking into your eyes and detailing the different shades of brown.

And somehow, as a society, we’ve all decided to accept this as normal, as casual. But feelings like that were never meant to be casual.

Yet despite being one of the most sceptical generations when it comes to love, and perhaps the most disillusioned, we still pursue it. We actively seek connection, regardless of the backpack of fear of disappointment we carry with us.

The painful part is that when you pursue love, when you open yourself up to someone new, you also reopen the door to being disappointed.

And unfortunately, there’s no way to give the first without risking the second.

Each time you open yourself up to the possibility of love but instead receive disappointment, it chips away at you slightly. Taking a small piece of your innocence with it. A small piece of your softness each time reality falls short of what you hoped it could be.

And it’s in this moment that disappointment begins to loom larger than hope, larger even than the possibility of love itself. Because yet again, another special connection didn’t translate into what you thought it could be.

Instead, you’re left with the ghosts of unlived memories, moments that never had the chance to be realised.

And that’s the hard but beautiful part about craving love. That despite it so often leaving us disappointed, once the dust settles, the cycle continues, and we begin to feel hopeful again.

A day that almost feels as though it’s designed to make you feel alone. A curated, commercialised reminder that love exists everywhere except, perhaps, in your own life. You walk into the grocery store just to buy milk, and suddenly you’re ambushed by strawberry-filled, heart-shaped chocolates stacked higher than your eye line. You can’t reach the yoghurt without seeing a plush teddy bear holding a satin heart that says “Be Mine.”

You notice flower shops on your daily commute that you swear were never there before. Today they are impossible to miss, proudly displaying the most perfect bouquet of peonies, which just so happen to be your favourite. You stand for a second longer than necessary at the traffic light, wondering what it must feel like to have someone know that about you without you having to say it twice.

Valentine’s Day is the one day of the year when having someone special feels necessary. More necessary than Christmas, more than New Year’s Eve, because this day isn’t about family or fresh starts. It’s about lovers. It’s about pairs. It’s about public displays of devotion that feel amplified under pink and red lighting.

You scroll TikTok and see your favourite influencer wake up to one hundred red roses from her Olympic-athlete boyfriend. The bed is perfectly made, the lighting is soft, and she acts surprised in a way that feels rehearsed but still magical. You close the app. You don’t want to be bitter. You don’t want to be cynical. You just don’t want the reminder.

But here’s the thing.

There is something in today for the singles, too.

And that something is the firsts.

The Firsts

The first is what I like to call the beginning stages of being in a relationship. The quiet, unlabelled, uncertain beginning.

It’s the first date with someone who could become your partner, though you don’t know it at the time. You don’t know that this person sitting across from you, nervously folding their napkin, might one day know your coffee order better than you do. You don’t know that they might be the person you call when something incredible happens, or when something breaks.

It’s the first kiss as you walk down a back street, stopping at the most perfect moment. You lean in, and for a split second, you pop one eye open just to see if theirs is closed. It is. And something about that tiny detail makes your stomach flip.

It’s the first time you hold hands. Maybe it’s under a dinner table, your fingers brushing accidentally before they intertwine intentionally. Maybe it’s as you walk side by side and they slip their hand into yours. It fits like a puzzle, moulded to your folds, warm and grounding in a way that surprises you.

It’s the first time you catch them staring at you, and you pretend not to notice. The first time they admit, almost shyly, that they were blown away the moment they first saw you. The first time you say goodnight and hesitate before closing the door, because neither of you quite wants the evening to end.

The thing about firsts is that they are unexpected because you don’t know the person yet. There is a mystery built into every encounter. You don’t know what they will say next. You don’t know what small detail about you they will remember. You don’t know the exact second they will lean in, look into your eyes, glance at your lips, and kiss you softly.

You don’t know which sentence you’ll say that makes them laugh in a way that makes you feel chosen. You don’t know which word you both find difficult to pronounce, which becomes your own private joke. You don’t know that one day, you’ll look back at this version of yourself and realise you were standing at the beginning of something.

The mystery and excitement of firsts is understated, yet it is fundamental to our experience of love. It’s not the grand gestures that make you fall. It’s the small discoveries. The shared glances. The feeling of being seen by someone new.

And the beautiful thing about being single on Valentine’s Day is this: your firsts still exist in your future.

They have not been used up. They have not expired.

They are waiting.

So yes, maybe today feels loud in its reminders. Maybe it feels like the world is paired off, and you are standing slightly to the side of it all.

But being single this Valentine’s Day is not a deficit. It is potential.

It means there is still someone out there who has not yet held your hand for the first time. Someone who has not yet looked at you in that way. Someone who has not yet been surprised by how well your laugh fits into their day.

And one day, when the timing is right and the stars feel aligned, you will meet them. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way. Probably in an ordinary one.

And you will get to experience the firsts.

And when you do, you will realise that waiting did not mean missing out.

It meant saving something extraordinary for the right moment.

The Netflix rom-com People We Meet on Vacation has sparked a new TikTok trend, where women who relate to the hopelessly endearing character Poppy claim that they are “forever a Poppy girl.” Across the app, women are showcasing their carefree spirit, feeding their audiences with authenticity through the screen, and leaning into a version of femininity that feels honest, messy, and deeply human.

Millennials on TikTok are arguably the most self-critical generation when it comes to rom-coms. They grew up with the very best of their kind, from the late 1990s to the early 2010s. They watched Kate Hudson and Anne Hathaway battle over a June wedding at the Plaza in New York. They saw a blue Tiffany box fall from a wardrobe holding Liv’s dream ring, and watched her ultimately marry the man who loved her exactly as she was. They watched Andy Sachs unknowingly fall in love with the man who had been pining for her all along.

They also grew up watching Ryan Gosling and Rachel McAdams run toward each other in the pouring rain, sharing one of the most heart-wrenching, romantic on-screen kisses of a generation, despite feeling as though the entire world was against them being together and happy.

So when it comes to People We Meet on Vacation, an adaptation of Emily Henry’s novel of the same name, the current viral TikTok response is not only valid because of the depth, tension, and emotional arc between the two main characters, but also because it signals something bigger. It feels like Netflix has finally earned the stamp of approval from one of its toughest critics.

This story has been told countless times before.

Alex is the attractive, slightly reserved man. He is put together, stable, and picture-perfect. He is the type of character who inevitably falls in love with his best friend.

Poppy is the slightly messy girl who looks like she doesn’t brush her hair, but is undeniably fun, quirky, and full of life. And, of course, she is in love with her best friend too.

The entire premise of the film is that the two go on holiday together once a year. Not because that is the only time they are free, but because deep down, they are both avoiding something real. They’re scared to say it. Scared to feel it. So they disguise their connection as one fun trip a year, because that feels safer than vulnerability.

That premise aligns perfectly with modern dating.

Fleeting connections are often chased and preferred, all in the name of avoiding something real. So it raises the question of why a generation raised on yearning, friends-to-lovers storylines, and unexpected romances working out is now so afraid to take that same chance in their own lives.

How can the generation that has arguably been the most active in dating culture, creating, using, and deleting countless apps just to form a connection, feel so lost when it comes to actually choosing someone?

The film represents a bridge between how modern dating feels and how it is actually lived. Stories of people dating someone who doesn’t want a relationship, but also doesn’t want to be alone, are far more common than stories of people actively choosing one another. Poppy moves through countless situationships. Alex stays with a girlfriend he knows, deep down, is not right for him. Both choices are made to avoid each other, and more importantly, to avoid the risk.

But when the inevitable moment finally arrives, when someone makes the first real move, and Alex stops at the red light long enough for Poppy to catch up to him, everything falls into place, the whole story makes sense. It didn’t feel gimmicky or forced in the way many modern rom-coms often do. It felt nostalgic, real, relatable, and raw.

It didn’t matter that it was the woman chasing the man, which goes against many modern social expectations. It didn’t matter that Poppy, the avoidant one, was the person who finally confessed her feelings. It works because it is honest. And that honesty is exactly why it resonated so deeply with audiences.

The ending of the film serves as a reminder.

A reminder that you can go anywhere with someone, and it can feel like home.

But more than that, it reminds audiences that avoiding love does not make someone safer; it just makes them lonelier. Being a Poppy girl is not about being carefree or chaotic. It is about being brave enough to feel, brave enough to say it first, and brave enough to risk wanting something real.

And perhaps that is why the trend has stuck.

Because deep down, most people are not afraid of love.

They are just afraid of being the one who wants it first.

But there’s a truth that a lot of people don’t realise.
Consistency is the currency of intention.

People now find it more intimate to have an epic, profound, passionate one-night stand with a stranger than to have a consistent experience with someone they are genuinely interested in. That one night tells a simple but intoxicating story of connection and romance, and continuing it risks diluting that delusion with reality. In reality, maybe they respond slowly, or not at all. Maybe the passion doesn’t translate into effort. Or worse, it does, and once you’re sitting across from them, you realise the person you built in your mind doesn’t exist in real life.

Having standards and integrity is important, especially when it comes to choosing who you date. People often say you can tell how much someone loves themselves by the person they choose to be with. But nowadays, there’s a fine line between leaving a situation for a valid reason and avoiding consistency out of fear of being hurt. Consistency has become a foreign concept in modern dating for most millennials and Gen Zs. While leaving situations that no longer serve a higher purpose is celebrated, small mishaps are often used as scapegoats to take the easiest way out before something real has the chance to form.

In 2026, the most valuable thing you can bring to dating is consistency, because it is exactly what most people are missing. The misalignment between consistency and commitment is rarely accidental. Some people want to see intention before offering consistency. Others want the benefits of consistency without ever revealing their intention.

But the two cannot exist without each other.

If you are consistent with someone you’re dating, don’t they have the right to assume there is some romantic intention there? Similarly, if you set a particular intention on the table, you are expected to be consistent in honouring it. One without the other creates confusion, imbalance, and emotional exhaustion.

Consistency and intention go hand in hand.

They cannot survive in a relationship without each other. Consistency is a currency, exchanged back and forth between two people who are mutually choosing one another. And it should be something you’re allowed to value without feeling embarrassed for having expectations.

If you have a one-night stand with someone and feel curious enough to see where it goes, dare to be consistent. If the person you feel connected to lives in another city, the least you can do is be intentional with how consistent you are in your pursuit. Consistency does not mean obligation. It means respect. And in modern dating, that is one of the clearest forms of intention there is.

“The ambiguous, disorienting ‘in-between’ stage during a major life transition, where you’ve left an old identity or situation but haven’t yet fully entered a new one.”

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I’m 29, and throughout my twenties, I’ve experienced numerous liminal phases, living many different lives during this decade. Most recently, it was in not knowing where I was going to live as my lease was coming to an end. I had a plan. I was going to move to Barcelona on a digital nomad visa. It was all mapped out and going smoothly until my company’s HR said no at the last minute.

I was then thrown into the unknown, grieving the potential of a new life I was so sure I was going to have, and unsure of how my life would look in London with my lease coming to an end. For weeks, I went flat hunting, which is otherwise known as a war zone in a big city like London. Day after day, I was met with “sorry, that’s been let,” or “someone has offered higher, could you increase yours?” for somewhere that already practically cost an arm and a leg.

But once the dust settled and I finally found somewhere, the reality hit.

I had to move my entire life across London.

After weeks of uncertainty, I didn’t want to add any more stress to the move. I wanted something simple, reliable, and affordable.

That’s why I used AnyVan. What I loved most was how easy it was. I got an instant price online for my move. It was significantly cheaper than what I’d been quoted elsewhere, and I was matched with a local five-star team who knew London inside out. Watching them manoeuvre my sofa through a space I was convinced it wouldn’t fit through was strangely reassuring. They made something I’d built up in my head feel effortless.

At a time when everything else felt uncertain, having a smooth, hassle-free move made a greater difference than I expected. It was one small moment of calm during a liminal phase, and sometimes that’s exactly what you need when you’re starting again in a new place. They move anything, anywhere across the UK, so if you’re moving soon, you can use my link (here) and get £25 off.

The graduate liminal phase has probably been the most daunting, because you’re classed as an adult without actually having any experience of being one. Once graduation came around, after spending thousands on an education, I’d never felt less informed about life. It was the first real time I had to make a new decision after being in education for 17 years and having a clear path laid out for me. Not knowing what job to take because you’ve gone from a broke student to a broke, unemployed adult overnight. And the thing about the liminal phase is that no matter how many times you experience it, it feels new each time.

It feels like making instant coffee, but you’ve forgotten to put the actual coffee in it. And you only realise when you take a sip because it doesn’t taste quite right. Or it may feel like a new outfit you put together in your mind, but when it actually comes to wearing it, it doesn’t fit how you expected it to.

That floating in-between phase feels infinite while you’re in it. And it can be so hard to remember there’s another side to the feeling, one that looks better than you could have ever imagined, and that always comes eventually.

So whatever liminal phase you’re experiencing right now, just know that you’ve been here before. You just didn’t have the language for it yet. And now that you do, you can carry that knowledge with you, and the reassurance that you will come out on the other end better than before. Because by definition, a liminal phase isn’t stagnation. It’s a transition. Something is already changing for the better.

And accountability is clarity. It's communication. It's care around the impact.

Penn Badgley said it best on the Call Her Daddy podcast when he asked the question that’s sat with so many people who have lived through it:

“Is it ever casual, really? I’ll wait. Not that they act casual about it, but that they feel casual about it.”

Because that’s the part no one wants to talk about.

Modern dating runs on an unspoken rule that everything is casual unless explicitly stated otherwise. And somehow, we’ve all agreed to play along with that silence, even when our bodies, our emotions, and our nervous systems are experiencing something entirely different.

Here is where it gets confusing.

You can be intimate with someone, be the closest two humans can be together (literally). They can know one of your biggest insecurities or personal family dramas that not even your best friend knows. You can show someone a side of you that’s so loving and so open, and yet you’re still sitting in this grey, casual area.

And the trouble with being intimate both physically and mentally is that someone will always inevitably fall a little. All it takes is one question that breaks down a wall you never knew was there, one stroke on your back as you lie in bed, which melts you into your sheets, for that “casual” line to be blurred.

How can kissing someone with your entire body, and then not texting them the next day, be normalised? How can someone falling asleep with their nose on the back of your neck, breathing in your scent, be casual? It’s not.

Yet, we accept it. It’s human to want connection and to satisfy needs. But still, the concept of casual eventually feels foreign to us, because it’s not normal for our nervous systems, for our feelings, to understand the difference between something real and something temporary when the temporary wears a mask.

Casual intimacy fails because our bodies experience closeness as real, even when we pretend it isn’t.

The problem isn't intimacy. It's the grey area.

Another thing about undefined romantic connections, or ones labelled as casual, is that they force people to hold back. You can’t give yourself fully to something that might not last; you can’t risk your heart, your mind, your stability. No matter how badly you want to kiss them as they’re talking to you about their day, or how badly you want to wrap your arms around them and pull them in for a hug.

Instead, it’s played cool, every step of the time you share, waiting for the other person to initiate. And in the inevitable moments of vulnerability, of personal touches and moments shared, you become closer spiritually, while still sitting in that damn grey area.

While it does teach you what you do and don’t want from romantic connections, what you will and won’t accept, it also teaches you about yourself. With almost every initial connection nowadays falling into the “casual” bracket, eventually it will force you to ask if it was ever really casual. Not that you said it was casual, but that you felt casual about it.

Casual intimacy doesn’t fail because people want too much.
It fails because people pretend they feel less than they do.

If it were truly casual, it wouldn’t hurt when it ends.
It wouldn’t linger in your body.
It wouldn’t blur lines or soften walls you didn’t plan on lowering.

So maybe the real question isn’t whether intimacy can ever be casual.

Maybe it’s why we keep calling it casual when it clearly isn’t.

The talking stage.

A sweet spot that has generations of people patiently sitting, waiting for progression. Progression into something more than the daily texting chains, the Friday night dates, the waking up together on a Saturday morning and walking to get coffee. But often, well, most times, actually, that progression doesn’t come. People are swallowed whole by another “failed talking stage” and have to go through the motions of grieving something that never truly began in the first place.

It seems to be the norm in modern dating. A comfortable place, even. It’s almost as though people prepare for the inevitable end of a connection before it has time to bloom. Interest comes in hard and fast; it can feel like mountains are moved in the first few days of a connection, but just as quickly, it falters. And this is so normal, so casual in modern dating that it’s barely spoken about. It’s not given any attention or grace. In fact, it’s often shrugged off as,

“Oh well, it was fun while it lasted.”

And then you’re left with more than just the memories you shared. You’re also left with your imagination, the version of what could have been. In my article The Intimacy in Never Speaking to Them Again, I dove into this: how never speaking to someone again feels intimate, how you’re left alone with your burning thoughts about who they were and who they could have been, phantom memories.

It’s almost as though a façade has replaced actual intention, as it becomes more and more rare for people to progress into something beyond the talking stage.

And the heartache?

The heartache is masked with disappointment, described to your friends as, “Another one bites the dust, I guess,” or, “He just wasn’t quite right for me,” while you deal with flashbacks every time you see a green jacket or accidentally brush a stranger’s hand. You find yourself reminiscing about their smile, or the way they leaned their face close to yours while you stood together looking at books on a bookshelf.

You remember the closeness. Their warmth. The feeling.

And all of those things feel so intense, regardless of how short but sweet it was. You opened yourself up. You felt something. They felt something. And just like that, it ended, and that small crack that opened inside you suddenly feels silly, exposed even. How embarrassing, you think, as you list all the things you could have said or done differently.

All of the memories feel fleeting.
All of the could-have-beens feel haunting.
And all of the hope feels silly.

Because it ended. It ended before it ever truly began. So you don’t allow yourself to feel anything beyond the thought of, This is why I don’t open up.

But when you take a step back and really look at it, there are always little lessons to be taken from every almost-connection.

It could be as simple as discovering a new matcha drink that becomes your new regular. Or realising that you want to date someone who wears sweet, comforting perfumes. It could be a lesson in listening more, in not interrupting people. Or a realisation that you need to speak up sooner about what you like and dislike, and have more confidence when you do.

No matter what, we can’t control the outcomes of situations, but we can control what we take away from them. And as things ending before they’ve had the chance to begin feels inevitable, at least until one finally sticks, it helps to think about what the connection gave you, rather than what it took from you.

We call it being “addicted to our phones,” but it’s not because the algorithm is mind-blowing or because our screens are casting some spell.

It’s because our phones make us feel less alone.
That’s the real hook. The human one.

Think about it… The phone is basically a companion now.

Before it became normal to carry a miniature, half-sentient computer around, that space, that instinct to check in, to say something, to hear something, belonged to actual friends. Sure, a friend couldn’t tell you the best pizza place in a one-mile radius, but they gave you something else.

They gave presence. Laughter. Reactions that happened in real time, not through emojis or typing dots.

And as the digital world expanded, so did the way we “do” friendship.

Now, companionship comes quickly and easily through a screen. You don’t need to be next to someone to know how they’d react to something; they can roll their eyes through FaceTime. You don’t need to sit across from your friends to share a life update; you send a text, a voice note, or a photo with “guess what happened.”

We don’t just live online anymore.
We offer ourselves online.

We reveal the most intimate parts of our lives, the job that fell apart, the job that saved us, the twenty pounds we gained and the twenty we lost. The heartbreaks. The little victories. The ugly moments we once whispered to only one person are now shared with hundreds, if not thousands.

And even when we take away the social part of the phone, the people, the posts, something else remains.

The habit.

Do you ever take your phone out while walking down the street just to look less awkward? Scroll for a second, pretend to check something, open your camera roll for no reason at all? Not because you need to, but because holding a phone feels safer than holding empty air.

At some point, phones stopped being tools.
They became companions.

Little pocket-sized friends who can’t hug you after a brutal conversation but can give you immediate advice. They can’t show you a real facial expression, but they’ll tell you what someone’s expression probably meant. They can’t sit across from you at brunch, but they’ll keep you busy enough that you don’t notice the empty chair.

And no, a phone will never replace real human interaction. Nothing ever will.

But let’s be honest… not everyone has steady access to human interaction. Not everyone has a full table, a full schedule, a full life of people who show up consistently. And for those who don’t … the phone steps in.

Not perfectly.
Not completely.
But enough to feel like something is there.

And maybe that’s okay.
Maybe that’s human, too.

We’ve all been there…looking at our phones the second it vibrates, hoping it’s them. Feeling the comfort of waking up to a good morning text, having someone check in on your day, and by lunchtime, you’ve already talked about your whole morning routine, what you ate for breakfast, and every small detail that doesn’t really matter but feels so personal in the moment.

The more you text, the closer you feel.

You know their every move.

How that dinner with their friends went, something funny their pet did that random Wednesday evening, that they read a chapter of their book before bed, and that they call their mum every day. It feels intimate, like you’ve learned someone in a way nobody else has.

But then reality hits.
Because you can text someone every single day and still get ghosted.

The problem with constant communication is that it tricks you into feeling like you’re owed something — effort, consistency, presence. And the moment that routine is disrupted and the usual afternoon check-in doesn’t come, your mind spirals. It’s not just silence; it’s a crash.

And when you mix constant communication with the normality of ghosting in today’s dating world, it becomes dangerous. The idea that someone you’ve built a digital closeness with can suddenly cut you out of their day… It’s jarring. You get used to having them as part of your routine, something to look forward to, and then it’s gone.

That’s why I always tell my friends not to be in constant communication with someone they’re dating.

Not because of the potential of being ghosted, but because the false intimacy that comes from nonstop texting can blur your judgment of how close you actually are to someone.

Real connection, real chemistry, real compatibility happen in person.
It’s in noticing the small things, how someone blinks when they laugh, how they crack their fingers when they’re nervous, their energy when they walk into a room. Not from texting someone what you ate for lunch every single day.

And I know, it feels nice to know there’s someone to text, having something to look forward to, but that digital comfort isn’t the connection you’re really craving. What you want is something deeper, something human, something you can feel in real time.

Constant communication floods your brain with dopamine, tiny hits of validation that make you feel connected even when the relationship hasn’t actually formed yet. It feels like bonding, but really, it’s just repetition dressed up as intimacy.

I’m not saying you have to leave someone on read all day, but you do have to de-centre constant communication in the early stages of dating if you want a clear understanding of who that person really is.

Because sometimes, we’re not bonding with the person, we’re bonding with the idea of who we hope they are. The version we text is always slightly curated, slightly softer, slightly more charming than the person we meet in real life.

Texting gives you closeness, but being with someone gives you connection. One fills the silence; the other fills the space between you.

Don’t confuse attention for intention.

At the heart of this epidemic is a simple truth: men have forgotten that having a girlfriend is a privilege.

A much-needed conversation began after Chante Joseph’s British Vogue article, “Is Having a Boyfriend Embarrassing Now?” She captured what so many women have been whispering for years— that being someone’s girlfriend often ends in embarrassment. Online, women swap stories of partners who’ve publicly belittled them or treated their love like a punchline. Even men joke about hating the women they chose, like that viral TikTok where a guy asks men in Costco how much they enjoy shopping with their wives. “Zero,” they laugh. Every one of them.

The article sparked an important realisation for women, but men should be the ones really paying attention. Because this isn’t a “women’s problem”— it’s a wake-up call for men whose value is quietly diminishing.

For independent, successful women, relationships are no longer about survival. We can buy the house, pay the bills, plan the trips, and build the life. So what do men bring? Companionship? Maybe. But companionship that drains your energy, embarrasses you online, or demands emotional labour without reciprocity isn’t companionship…it’s another job.

And before anyone says, “Women want too much,” remember: everything we ask for, loyalty, thoughtfulness, affection, emotional maturity, are things women already give without being asked.

Many women have realised that dating often feels like paying for a boyfriend both financially and emotionally, and getting little in return. Even the women who accept “the bare minimum” still end up disappointed, because the bar keeps dropping. Meanwhile, women are finding joy elsewhere: in friendships that feel like home, in solo travel, in careers that fill them, and in the quiet peace that comes from not being diminished by someone you love.

So here’s the truth, again: having a girlfriend is a privilege— one that requires effort, gratitude, and self-awareness.

If you’re a man reading this and genuinely want to do better, start here:
Ask yourself what value you bring to a woman’s life beyond surface-level charm. Go to therapy if you need to unlearn unhealthy patterns. Be the partner who lightens her load, not adds to it. Speak about women with respect. Encourage her ambitions. Make her feel desired, supported, and safe. Appreciate the small things she does without asking for applause.

Because when men start to understand that girlfriends aren’t perks, they’re people, love might finally feel like a partnership again, not performance.

Join me for the sequel, “Men Who Don’t Embarrass Their Women,” where I explore the men who prove that respect, protection, and admiration never go out of style - coming soon.

“To be loved is to be seen”

And what a beautiful thing it is. To be truly understood by someone who loves you.
It’s more than a feeling; it’s being known for exactly who you are, what you stand for, and you at your core.

It’s a deep understanding of a person’s quirks, desires, flaws, vulnerabilities, and loving them through it all. To be loved like that is to be understood, and that kind of understanding is rare, the rarest kind of human connection, in fact.

Platonic love can make you feel seen in that same way, especially among women. Maybe one of your friends has a ‘weird’ personality trait that makes her stand out, or a niche hobby she adores, and every time you meet, you ask about it, because you know not many others will.

Love isn’t about grand gestures or expensive gifts. It’s remembering the book they mentioned once and showing up with it the next time you see them. It’s giving them the inside of the bread because you know they don’t like the crust. It’s asking about a topic that lights them up, even if it doesn’t interest you, simply because their joy matters to you.

“To be loved is to be seen” goes beyond self. It’s not about what you feel capable of giving; it’s about loving someone in the way they need to be loved.

It isn’t a quote for the selfish; it’s a truth for the selfless. For those who have ten spare minutes to read your latest creative piece, ask questions about it, and make space for you without expecting anything in return.

That kind of love is rare.

As rare as the love we dream about, the kind we only seem to watch on TV, because being selfish has become the new standard. And being interested, truly invested, feels like a lost art in a world where everything looks and feels the same.

So if you’re someone who longs to be loved in a way that makes you feel seen, start by being that for others. Because the moment you begin to see people deeply, you open the door for someone to see you, too.

And you can start with it in your own life. Next time you’re out, watch how a stranger reacts to their first sip of coffee. Or how a driver daydreams at a traffic light. Watch how a shopkeeper talks to their customers about new products they just stocked, or how someone smiles while they’re sitting across from you in the tube.

Notice the small moments, because that’s exactly what the quote is about. Understanding, admiring, seeing the small moments in someone and loving them, so maybe start by seeing people, and I mean really seeing people in your day-to-day.

And here’s the thing, you might be wondering what those standards are, what no man has managed to live up to yet. The catch? They’re actually pretty basic.

Take courtship for example, an art that’s almost disappeared in modern dating. Gone are the days when a man would show up at 8 p.m. with flowers hidden behind his back, smiling nervously as you opened the door. That anticipation, that effort, has evaporated. Now, a first date often looks more like you making your own way to the bar, where he’s already sitting.

He doesn’t stand to greet you. He doesn’t pull out your chair.

Maybe the conversation flows, the eye contact lingers, the drinks ease you into the moment. And then the bill arrives. He leans back, casual as ever, and says the three words no man should ever utter on a date: “Should we split?”

The truth is, many men fall at the very first hurdle. Basic communication skills and etiquette are slipping away. Texting culture has made it acceptable to go a whole day without responding, even though we all carry our phones with us 24/7.

We’ve never been so close, yet so far from each other. And in the dating world, it’s only getting worse.

Detachment has become the norm, while genuine connection is something many shy away from. Maybe dating apps are to blame, the endless options, the illusion that there’s always someone better just a swipe away. That mindset clouds people’s ability to see what’s right in front of them.

But even when you do manage to date someone, have a good few dates, too often they still struggle to meet the most basic standards of communication and courtship.

And that’s concerning.

Concerning that butterflies may never arrive for a man.

Concerning that yearning, the kind we’ve only seen on TV screens or read in books, feels fictional.

The idea of someone picking you up at 8 p.m. with a bouquet of flowers feels foreign.

That a man being a gentleman and covering the bill is now a gamble, because it’s no longer the standard.

These moments give us pause. They make women wonder if that man will ever come…or worse, if he even exists in 2025.

Because when we see a girl in a relationship now, she doesn’t look cool or enviable. Too often, our first thought is: What did she compromise on?

And that’s sad because we’ve lowered the bar so far that basic effort now feels extraordinary. And until men start meeting standards, women will keep asking the same question: What exactly are we settling for?

Which brings us back to what this article is about. I’m scared I’ll never meet a man who will live up to my standards. Because I’m a woman who refuses to compromise, who refuses to quiet her love, who writes about it, dreams about it, and stays the hopeless romantic she is.

As I’ve written before: if you yearn, you deserve someone who yearns for you. If you’re a romantic, you deserve someone who meets you there. And that’s one standard we should never settle on.