As the perpetual third wheel, I have some experience in which couples are more tolerable than others. I’ve been in some uncomfortable situations to say the least. You know when you’re watching a cringe TV show and get secondhand embarrassment? It’s like that, except the couple is right in front of you, and you have to actively control your facial expressions so they don’t feel embarrassed. Yuck.

One time, you could cut the tension like butter. Clearly my friend and her boyfriend had had a fight. I could smell it. We were crashing at his apartment for the weekend. She walked over to the couch where I was lounging, holding the tiniest piece of cheesecake known to man.

“Hey, want to share?”

Share what, that crumb?

Later she told me he’d made her a nice cheesecake and then told her she shouldn’t eat it because it would “give her diabetes” and she’d already had “too much” sugar that weekend. Excuse me? Did he just body-shame my bestie? Absolutely not. It wasn’t the first time either. My rage was bottled, ready to clap back on her behalf. But I froze. That’s her boyfriend, her relationship. Do I intervene and risk drama, or stay quiet and feel complicit? I’d hate to cause distance in our friendship over a man, but I also hate watching a man chip away at her confidence.

Welcome to the third-wheel dilemma.

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The fighting couple

You’ve met them, we all have. They are always arguing about something, from tiny preferences to fundamental values.

There’s the play-fighting subtype, which is slightly more tolerable. It looks like “stoppp” while laughing, light whacks on the arm, mock debates about music or movies. From the outside, it’s…not that funny. The banter is mid; the debate is usually stupid. Occasionally, they’re faux arguing about a topic you actually know something about. That’s when you can join in and dogpile, usually on your friend’s side, purely for your own entertainment.

Then there’s the real fighting. Raised voices, tight jaws, pointed silence. You can tell this argument has been simmering for weeks and has chosen to erupt at, say, a pregame or dinner party. This is when peak discomfort is reached. If possible, evacuate immediately before someone turns to you with, “What do you think?” and suddenly you’re therapist, mediator, and emotional shock absorber.

If you are this couple, please save the blowups for home. Not everyone wants a front-row seat to your drama and make-up-sex routine.

The messy couple

They probably met at a party and bonded over too much alcohol and flattering lighting. Their relationship status is a revolving door: together, broken up, together, broken up, together “for real this time.”

One month they’re nauseatingly honeymoon-phase, posting soft-launch photos and sharing playlists. The next, she’s declaring she’s done forever and listing his crimes in your kitchen. Two weeks later, they’re quietly seeing each other again, and you find out when she casually drops a ‘we’ into conversation.

This couple isn’t the worst to third-wheel, but they are exhausting. It’s draining to hear your friend go into detail about how badly he treated her, knowing she’s going to crawl right back like she didn’t just call him a walking red flag. You start to feel like you’re trapped in a very low-budget reboot of Normal People.

This dynamic is especially common in college: frats, sororities, sports teams. Bonus points if they date within the friend group and make everything awkward after each break-up. Extra bonus if either (or both) of them has also dated someone else in the same circle. That’s not a relationship, that’s a group project in emotional chaos.

Spoiler: this couple is almost never endgame. Eventually one of them blocks the other and means it, or someone moves away and geography finally does what common sense could not.

The PDA couple

It’s the most self-explanatory. They are always all over each other, practically fused at the hip. Every inch of their bodies is touching. As the single third wheel, you feel like you’re intruding on an intimate moment. Hello, I am still here. You are in public.

I’m not anti-affection. Hold hands, put an arm around a shoulder, a subtle hand on the thigh, fine. But full-on eye-fucking, face caressing, and deep making out in public? Why. If you consistently find yourself in a relationship built on a love language of public physical touch, maybe consider social distancing in front of other people.

It’s especially excruciating if you’re single and touch-starved. I’ve been celibate for a year, and here you are unable to go ten seconds without licking each other’s tonsils. Thank you for that.

An offshoot of the PDA couple is the overshare couple. The ones who feel compelled to hint at or explicitly describe their sex life. Please do not traumatize me with details of how “freaky” you are, or make jokes about “what’s happening later.” I do not need that mental image. Ever.

The “remember when” couple

This couple lives for private jokes and hyper-specific memories.

“You just wouldn’t get it, you had to be there.”

Okay, then why did you bring it up in front of me?

They will recount the time they were on vacation and something hilarious happened or reference a niche inside joke for the 47th time. As the third wheel, you are immediately sidelined. No, I don’t remember when you two did that, because I wasn’t there.

This style of couple talk leaves the third wheel feeling even more alienated. You’re already the only single person; now you’re also the only person who doesn’t speak the secret couple language. If you are this couple, please save your “remember when” compilation episodes for your shared Notes app.

So, what makes a good couple to third-wheel?

If you’re thinking this all sounds quite negative, you’re not wrong. Very few couples are actually pleasant to third-wheel with, and frankly most people are settling anyway. But there is one combo that works…

The boyfriend is the third wheel

This is the best-case scenario. You and your friend are chatting away, engaged in your usual flow, and her boyfriend is just happily orbiting, chiming in occasionally, carrying bags, existing peacefully. He is included and acknowledged, but he is not the center of the hangout. He understands the original relationship here is the friendship, and he respects that.

That is the key: everyone is included, no one is smothered, and the single friend is not made to feel like a tragic side character.

If you’ve fallen victim to any of these couple archetypes, I feel you. If you are these couples…maybe pause, self-reflect, and stop using your third-wheeling friend as free labor in your relationship storyline.

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Cats have always had a bad rap. In cartoons and movies they’re evil masterminds; mischievous, conniving, temperamental. They sit on the laps of villains and bitter old women, blinking slowly while plotting someone’s downfall. Off the top of my head: Cinderella’s stepmom’s cat, Meowth from Team Rocket, Catwoman, Angelica’s cat in Rugrats, the Siamese cats in Lady and the Tramp. Dogs almost never get cast in that role. Coincidence? I think not.

Black cats are “bad luck,” orange cats are “crazy.” All cats, apparently, are unaffectionate, moody, scared, boring, cold, mean, aggressive. Historically, they’ve been linked with witchcraft and dark feminine power, which is just patriarchy-speak for women who won’t behave. In art and pop culture, cats end up symbolizing independence, mystery, self-possession: traits people tolerate in men but treat as suspicious in women. Pair that with a single woman on screen and bam! You have your crazy cat lady, villain-in-training.

Birth of the crazy cat lady trope suddenly doesn’t seem so rouge, huh? The lonely spinster with ten cats is propaganda, a warning about what happens if a woman dares to live outside marriage and male approval.

Enter the classic icebreaker: “Dogs or cats?” The socially acceptable answer is dogs. Loving dogs signals you’re friendly, normal, easy to like. I hear the same arguments every time. Dogs are more loyal, more loving, more fun, more trainable. Translation: their affection is automatic, not earned.

Cats are different. Their whole thing is boundaries. They want someone who can read when to pet and when to back off, when to pick them up and when to let them sleep for six hours in a sunbeam. If you ignore that and keep pushing, they hiss, swipe, or leave. They enforce consequences. Dogs will let you grab, poke, overhandle; cats will remind you you’re not entitled to their body or their time.

This is why I don’t trust people who say they “hate cats.” Why, exactly?

When someone says they hate cats, what I often hear is: I don’t like beings with boundaries. I want affection on demand, not something I have to earn. I want easy, obedient, predictable, low-resistance. I want something that loves me no matter how I behave. That’s not about animals. That’s about control.

Of course, they’ll never frame it that way. They’ll say, “Cats are so moody,” or “One scratched me out of nowhere,” or “They’re lazy and boring.” So what you’re really telling me is, you ignored the signals, pushed too far, got scratched, and now you’re offended you didn’t get unconditional validation? Noted.

To me, cats are metaphors for women. They represent female freedom and unpredictability, the refusal to perform constant emotional labor. Like women, they want respect and consistency. They want you to prove you’re safe. They’ll give affection, but selectively, to those who actually earn it.

I, like my feline friends, want to be left alone when I want to be left alone. Touch me when I invite it. Listen to my body language. If a man cannot respect that, I, too, will start metaphorically hissing (though I should literally). There is a reason our genitals get nicknamed “pussy” and “kitty.”

Any potential date, therefore, must at least not hate cats. Bare minimum. He needs to tolerate the idea of an animal (and a girlfriend) with boundaries. If he actively likes cats, or dare I say, loves cats? Fantastic. That hints at someone who can handle autonomy and doesn’t need constant ego petting. The bar is in hell, I know.

Interestingly, as more women collectively realize that many men are…failing as romantic options, cats have been rebranded. Feminists, queer folks, and single women are increasingly reclaiming the “cat lady” as a symbol of independence, not failure. A girl and her cat against the world.

Who needs a mediocre man who will leave dirty clothes everywhere, forget your birthday, and emotionally underperform when you can have a cat who curls up on your chest, purrs, and never calls you crazy?

If you dislike cats, I’m not saying you’re definitely a raging misogynist. But I am saying, be curious about why. Is it really about fur on the furniture, or is there something in you that bristles at creatures who come with their own terms and conditions?

For me, it is that deep.

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If you’re anything like me, and your TikTok fyp wants to devastate you, you’ve probably seen edits using “The Hand” by Annabelle Dinda. Maybe you also fall into the independent, female-rage, oldest-daughter archetype: you think too much, feel misunderstood, crave connection, and are chronically under-appreciated. Hi. Welcome.

The first edit I saw was set to Avatar: The Last Airbender, one of my all-time favorite shows. The lyrics fit the characters so perfectly that I stopped doomscrolling and thought. Since then, I’ve seen montage after montage of female main characters who are essential to the story yet somehow still sidelined or under-praised.

Think: Mulan, Elsa, Merida, Katara, Toph, Jinx, Vi, Hermione Granger, Princess Mononoke, Katniss Everdeen, Jo March, Kate Bridgerton, Nancy Wheeler, Bonnie Bennett, Kat Stratford, Wednesday Addams, Natasha Romanoff, Violet Sorrengail, Harley Quinn, Elle Woods.

And any other fictional baddie who quietly holds the whole plot together.

These women have always meant so much to me. Mulan’s bravery, Elsa’s self-discovery, Katniss’ rebellion, Katara’s moral backbone, Hermione’s intellectual sharpness, Kate’s wit, Bonnie’s resilience, Jo’s resolve, Wednesday’s uniqueness, Nancy’s determination. They are not just love interests or sidekicks; they are the reason the story works at all. Without them, the narrative collapses or turns flat.

Yet compared to their male counterparts, they rarely get the same praise. Women are expected to shoulder the emotional labor, the moral compass, the planning, the saving. Men who step up are “cowboys, sailors,” heroic and singular. Women doing the same work are too much, too intense, bossy, difficult. In the song, men get to be “a hand, a spike, a physical fight, a flash of light, a curtain” – big, cinematic, important. Women are reduced to “the bottle in the ocean,” “the siren in the water” – background texture, eye candy, a love interest, but not the architect.

That is the tension “The Hand” captures so well. Every time a guy writes a song, he becomes mythologized, holding “the world in his palm like he made it himself.” Every time she opens her mouth, she immediately thinks, “Wow, what a loud noise,” and feels the need to underplay it, to seem “underwhelmed.” The metaphor she paints is poignant; his art is a monument, hers is an interruption.

We’re taught from girlhood that our voices are too loud, our feelings too much, our opinions disruptive. We’re instructed to sit still, look pretty, and maybe serve as inspiration for someone else’s genius. Dinda’s repetition of images – hand, spike, toll, tithe, siren, bottle – is like a collage of the roles we’re assigned: burden, warning, temptress; not the author.

Then there’s the line: “This isn’t rage, it’s worth a mention / This is a fake internal tension.” She immediately undercuts herself, minimizing her own feelings as “not real rage,” “too specific,” not important enough to count. That is so painfully girl-coded it hurts. We apologize while describing our own oppression. We add disclaimers to our anger. We’re so used to being dismissed that we start shrinking ourselves before anyone else can. We’re so tired.

“I like to hate symbolic limits… this is no statement, I’m complicit.” That’s the devastating part. She admits she helps maintain the very system that harms her. Stepping out of it feels impossible. It’s Jo March saying, “women have minds... souls…ambition” and then whispering, “I’m so lonely.” You can be feminist, furious, fully aware, and still long for love, for approval, for safety inside the world you’re critiquing. As long as the patriarchy lives in our heads, we end up fighting ourselves too.

“The Hand” feels like that argument set to music. The song knows what’s wrong and still asks, “Does that make me His daughter?” There’s this confused reaching for legitimacy, for permission, for someone higher to say, yes, your feelings count.

The ending – “Just sweep me up and take me somewhere higher” – sounds like a prayer and a protest at the same time. It’s spiritual. It feels like a plea to be lifted out of this exhausting loop. The minimizing, the overexplaining, the knowing, the staying. “Somewhere higher” could be heaven, but it could also be something much simpler: a world where women’s words aren’t treated as noise. Where we’re not sirens or bottles or metaphors, but the hand that writes, the voice that frames the story, the center instead of the aside.

I want that world. The one where all the Mulans, Katnisses, Hermiones, Joes, Kataras, Nancys, and Bonnies aren’t just fan edits, but blueprints for how we treat real women. Where saying how we feel isn’t “loud,” it’s language. Where our work is not a “message in a bottle” hoping someone finds it, but a stake in the ground that says: I was here, I matter. I want to fight for that with the gusto of all the female badass characters I see on screen.

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“I’m supposed to go on a date,” I told my roommate.

I handed her my phone, bracing for the dreaded “oooh, he’s…cute, I guess.” Instead, she zoomed in on his tanned biceps, nodded approvingly, and gave me the green light. Well dressed, put together. The kind of guy who could throw you around and still be presentable to your mom.

Okay, maybe I wasn’t so hesitant anymore. This could be fun.

“I’m just going across the street,” I said, grabbing my bag. Our favorite sports bar was visible from our balcony.

“Good luck!” she called as I left.

I arrived first. Mistake number one.

I sheepishly scanned around, trying to spot my date. I thought I saw someone vaguely resembling his profile picture, then immediately dismissed it. No way that’s him. That has to be a joke.

He crossed the street, walked up, and hugged me.

Oh. It’s him.

This was not the hunky, tanned dreamboat my roommate and I had just ogled in our living room. This was his washed-up, beer-bellied uncle. Same general face, completely different league.

Was I…catfished?

As we walked inside to find a table, I started spiralling and texted my roommate under the table.

SOS I got catfished. He’s an uggo and at least five years older than advertised.

God bless her, she agreed to bail me out. But if this man was going to catfish me, the least I could do was gather evidence. I ordered a cider and an app and began my investigation.

“So, where were those photos on your profile taken?” I asked.

“Spain,” he said proudly. “When I studied abroad.”

I kept going. When did you study abroad? When did you graduate? When did you move here? When did you start your job?

Junior year abroad. Graduated two years before me. Been in his post-grad job for about three years after he moved from staying at home for sometime.

So those photos were at least six years old, I gathered from my mental math.

And BOY, did he look different. Time and beer have teamed up against him. He had not aged like fine wine; he had aged like curdled milk.

If you’re thinking, wow, Sarah, harsh, you’re being a bit of a bitch, let me stop you right there. Men judge women against brutal beauty standards all the time. They shame women for not wearing makeup, for having body hair, for not being “put together” enough, “feminine” enough, “effortless” enough. Cue America Ferrera’s Barbie monologue. We have been under a microscope for centuries. I think wanting to be attracted to the person I’m on a date with is not exactly a radical ask.

Plus, he did catfish me.

I don’t need to coddle him or feel guilty for having eyes.

I chugged my cider and texted my roommate again. She suggested she “accidentally” lock herself out and call me in a panic, so I’d have an excuse to leave. Since the bar was across the street, she also wanted to do a walk-by to verify the severity of the catfish.

He was facing the street, so she strolled past. A moment later, I got her verdict. Let’s just say I felt very validated.

Right on cue, my phone rang. Roommate “locked out.” I put on my best concerned face.

“Oh no, she doesn’t have her keys. I’m so sorry, I have to go let her in,” I said.

He was understanding. “Yeah, of course, go help her.”

Perfect. Clean exit.

Except then he said, “I’ll come with you.”

Damn it.

Yes, I could have just said no and left. But years of people-pleasing and patriarchal conditioning had me trapped in “be polite” mode. God forbid I tell a man directly, “You catfished me, I don’t feel comfortable, I’m going home.”

We walked toward my building, making awkward small talk. I asked, “Cats or dogs?” which is one of my favorite litmus tests for dormant control issues.

“Dogs,” he said. “They just automatically give you attention. You don’t have to, like, earn it.”

Excuse me? No need to respect boundaries? Ick level: astronomical. If the catfish didn’t do it, that answer would have.

A few buildings away, I stopped. “I’m just going to go let her in,” I said, clearly implying this is where we part ways.

“Yeah, where at?” he asked.

Take. A. Hint.

“Maybe we can finish another time?” I offered, mostly as a buffer so he wouldn’t follow me to my actual door. I saw the realization flicker across his face.

“Oh,” he said.

Yeah. Oh. Get the fuck away from me, you creep.

He finally turned and walked the other way. I got upstairs, blocked him, and debriefed with my roommate. We pulled up his profile again and compared.

“Yeah, that was absolutely not the same person.”

“At least I have a funny story.”

When I told some guy friends about it later, they felt bad for him. The subtext was that I was calculated, somewhat dramatic, and should have “given him a chance.” As if a woman using photos from six years and several life stages ago would get the same empathy. If a woman showed up looking significantly different, weighed more, aged visibly, would he be told to give her grace and “see past looks”? Absolutely fucking not. She would be called deceptive, desperate, and blamed.

It wasn’t just false advertising, it was deceitful. In worst-case scenarios, that kind of dishonesty can be dangerous. But sure, I’m the mean one.

The wild part is I didn’t even call him out. I didn’t say, “Hey, your photos are ancient and misleading, and I feel uncomfortable.” I slipped out quietly instead of risking confrontation. Part of me still thinks I should have said something. Another part knows that with a stranger, not escalating was probably the safer choice.

Now, every time I look at my own profile and see my straight-hair photos, I cackle. When I show up with curls, maybe my date will think *I* catfished *him*.

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Here is my Official Boyfriend Application Criteria. I am only asking for what I already give, or am actively working toward myself. The bare minimum has left the chat. Delusional? Yes, most likely.

Dear Future Boyfriend,

Consider this my wish list for an equal partnership, not a fantasy script (though nowadays, it might be). If you see these boxes and think, yeah, that’s just being a decent, emotionally literate adult, then hi, welcome. If you see them and feel personally attacked, I wish you healing and several months of therapy. There is no particular order to this chaos, just things I would genuinely find delightful in a partner.

Let’s get into it:

• In therapy or open to it (would go)

• Can cook & likes to

• Working to build wealth (has goals)

• Liberal & educated

• Open minded

• Socially intelligent

• Self-aware, introspective, can & does reflect

• Emotionally available

• Emotionally intelligent (yes, these are two separate things)

• Smart

• Caring, sweet, thoughtful, considerate

• Doesn’t judge me for anything

• Is super gentle with me & my feelings

• Doesn’t blame or shame me

• Is good at conflict resolution, doesn’t name call or yell, and works to solve issue as a team

• Attractive to me but not obsessed with themselves or too insecure

• Secure in his masculinity

• Doesn’t let their ego rule them

• Feminist af, is willing to unlearn internalized misogyny

• Cares about the environment

• His Mom & Dad have to love him & give him attention

• He loves his parents too

• My sister has to like & approve of him

• No anger issues

• Doesn’t use silent treatment inappropriately

• Able to open up about feelings & be vulnerable

• Never cheated

• Not controlling or too clingy

• My friends like to hang out with him & vise versa

• Funny but not as a coping mechanism or in a sexist, insensitive way

• Prioritizes open, honest communication

• No addiction

• No dependency issues

• No commitment issues

• Can build & fix things (nice to have)

• 6’ or taller (preferably, not a dealbreaker)

• Likes to travel to interesting places not just resorts

• Wants to go on road trips with me

• Let’s me paint his nails, will obey silly requests to make me happy

• Has sisters & gets along with them

• Knows about girls, has friends that are girls (but not girl bsf)

• Can have meaningful deep conversations

• Not critical, doesn’t talk shit

• Easy going, relaxed

• Asks me what I want & checks in with me

• Gets me gifts that I will like

• Compliments me often & randomly & uses good vocabulary to do so

• Hypes me up about myself & doing things in life

• Strong physical intimacy & not just sex

• Passionate about their future & hobbies

• Has a friend that calls him out for bs

• Has quality friends

• Does little romantic gestures a lot, takes pride in his romantic efforts

• Makes it known I’m a priority to him (reaches out, makes plans with me, ft me, asks questions, meets needs, etc.)

• Not obsessed with exes or calls them crazy

• Good hygiene, has a skin care routine (nice to have skincare)

• Likes to be clean & doesn’t mind doing chores

• Comforting & very supportive

• Helps me achieve my goals & dreams

• Pushes & inspires me to be my best self

• Doesn’t put me on a pedestal but worships me

• Takes care of themselves (works out, eats healthy, meditation, mindfulness, gratitude, etc.)

• Not overly sexual, doesn’t pressure me

• Good kisser & good at sex (or will learn asap)

• Treats everyone with respect (ALL women, service workers, POC, people with disabilities, etc.)

• Respects me- my opinions, my needs, my career, my personality, my family, my decisions

• Attentive, recognizes my needs, I don’t have to ask more from him or beg for anything

• Actively meets my needs & anticipates what I will want/need, makes changes to meet my needs

• Makes me feel better about myself, reassures me, lifts/cheers me up

• Makes it safe to express myself & my feelings

• Gives me physical affection & likes to receive it

• Would be a good dad

• Appreciates the arts

• Understands & listens to me, knows a lot about me

• Gives me all five love languages

• Asks me meaningful questions & genuinely tries to get to know me

• Let’s me do my own thing

• Isn’t lying or faking it; doesn’t just want me to serve him & make his life more comfortable

• Equitable division of labor in the relationship, does his fair share of household tasks & emotional labor

• Devoted & dedicated to me

• Gives princess treatment

• Uses problem solving skills to make me feel secure in the relationship

• Doesn’t only see me when it’s convenient for him

  

  ---

Values

Hopefully, he shares majority of these core beliefs (not just in theory, but in practice):

• Open, honest communication

• Curiosity

• Love & romance

• Integrity, honesty

• Loyalty

• Personal growth & development

• Vulnerability

• Respect

• Empathy

• Trust

• Mindfulness & gratitude

  

Character Convergence

He should, ideally, match my character in at least one of these core pillars:

• Explorer Energy: Exploring, curiosity, travel, experience-oriented, going outside comfort zone, wanderlust, adventure

• Lover of Life: Appreciating life, little moments, nature, culture, art, music, food; sense of gratitude; has a passion

• Inner Work & Wellbeing: Mindfulness, meditation, self-improvement, self-reflection, introspection, growth mindset, health & wellbeing

• Deep Thinker Brain: Deep thinking, hard questions & thought-provoking conversations, listening, empathizing, critical of society/authority, intellectualism

• Soft Heart, Open Mind: Positive, believes the world/people are good, open to love, romantic, values connection, expresses feelings

  

If this sounds like a lot, that’s fine; I am also a lot, in the best way.

If you read this and thought reasonable, you might be my people. If you read this and panicked, fair enough. I realize this probably scares the shit out of most people. I’m not expecting someone to check all boxes, that’s certifiably crazy. But majority? Yes, please. I don’t want a rigid list of demanding criteria to hold me back from finding good men. I do want to remind myself that I deserve a love that reciprocates, that cares, that shows genuine effort without me forcing it.

I refuse to lower the bar just because the market is in shambles; I’d rather be single than negotiating with clearance-rack behavior. Let’s all hold men to higher standards. Who knows, maybe they will finally evolve.

xx - Lover Girl💋

P.S this is supposed to be like the opposite of the “you’re cut” trend, cheeky and fun. Do you agree? What would you add or get rid of?

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I wrote this as a journal entry over a year ago, before the whole having a boyfriend is embarrassing discourse went mainstream. Gold star for me, thanks. I know the topic is everywhere now and slightly overdone, but I still want to add my two cents. Inspired by the podcast below (it’s really good, I highly recommend giving it a listen).

The fear of never finding the one, of dying alone, of never experiencing real love is pervasive. It is hard not to let it run your life, shaping your decisions and your view of yourself. Cynicism creeps in, settles into your bones, and suddenly your experiencing a quarter life crisis at 25. When the world keeps telling you, you are incomplete without a partner, you start believing something is wrong with you. And once you feel broken, you are easier to sell fixes to: makeup, gym memberships, clothes, plastic surgery, self-help. Fill the hole they informed you you have.

Why do we place so much importance on romantic relationships anyway? Why is it the default topic, the main plot, the metric of success? There is this frantic rush. Find someone quickly, before you get too old, before all the good ones are taken, before your friends pair off.

It’s suffocating.

Then, once people do couple up, they disappear. Goodbye friends, I have finally found my person, I no longer require a social life. We expect one partner to become everything: best friend, therapist, lover, family, entire social circle. Women grow up held by layered, intergenerational support networks. Then we are handed a man and told, “Congratulations, please become his entire village!” No, thank you.

Post-grad, the pressure intensifies. It feels like the second you get your diploma, an invisible clock starts ticking. Find your person before time runs out. But what does “time up” even mean? What is the actual consequence? Is being unpartnered really the worst possible outcome? If your answer is yes, why?

If you end up “alone” – unmarried, unpartnered, childless – the patriarchy would like you to picture yourself as a miserable, bitter witch in a dark, bleak house with a cat, cursing lovers from afar. Honestly, that sounds peaceful. I love cats. People throw around you’re going to die alone as a threat. As if married people do not die alone all the time. What if your partner dies first? What if you burrow so far into your relationship that you let your friendships and community wither away to rot? Who is more alone then?

I want love. I want to share my life with someone, to have a witness to my memories, a co-author to my days. I just refuse to let the fear of not getting that dictate everything. We desperately need to put more emphasis on community, friendships, family, and our relationship with ourselves.

Some people in relationships are the loneliest, dullest people. You talk to them and they only have “we did this, we did that,” and “this” is almost always sitting on a couch watching television. That cannot be the prize.

We should start celebrating milestones that are not just weddings and baby showers. I am expected to spend hundreds on flights, dresses, and gifts for every engagement and baby, while those same couples enjoy double income, whilst no one throws a party for the single friend who moved countries, finished a degree, wrote a book, or simply survived a brutal year.

Single people get no celebration, only unsolicited advice.

We need to change the way we talk about being single. Remove the shame. Stop treating it like a temporary failure status. Start asking: what kind of relationship do you have with yourself? Maybe you could live a bright, full life without a partner. Maybe the scenario you fear most could secretly be the one where you are happiest: content, autonomous, at peace. We need more examples of older women thriving alone, not just warning the next generation, “Never get married, worst decision of my life,” and then disappearing back into oblivion. After all, don’t the statistics say unmarried (specifically childless) women are among the happiest demographic?

Instead of “how’s your love life?” we should be asking, “how good can your life get? How authentically are you living it?” This constant pressure to couple up pushes people to settle. I genuinely believe most people are settling, I estimate about 90% (personal statistic, please do not come at me). We should not be picking partners from a place of panic about ending up alone. We should be building a life where we practice love daily, whether it is with a partner or not.

I would rather be single than with the wrong person. I would rather live a vivid, honest life and “end up alone” than spend it raising a grown man who calls himself my boyfriend.

xx – Man Hater 💋

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Happily ever after.

I waited for that scene in every movie, the one where the music swells and Prince Charming finally gets the girl. The world is fixed, love is real, credits roll.

I grew up on Disney princesses and romcoms: How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, 10 Things I Hate About You, 13 Going on 30, The Holiday, The Notebook. Men in these stories remember your favorite snacks and your niche obsessions. They rearrange their lives to make room for you. They step up, not step out. They sacrifice. They show care, intentionality, emotional depth.

How is a girl supposed to not believe in finding her own version of that?

This was the birth of Lover Girl.

Lover Girl daydreams about love letters and kissing in the sun. She wears her heart on her sleeve. She’s warm and sensitive, a quiet optimist. She paints her nails, braids her hair, keeps a journal and a Jellycat. She wears pink lacy tops and flowery skirts. She smiles with her eyes and laughs with her whole body.

Lover Girl is not foolish. She is older than dating apps, older than irony. She believes in love the way people believe in nature: not because it is kind, but because it exists.

She is the perfect muse, the perfect protagonist for all those movies.

She patiently waits for her soulmate, her one true love, someone to say, you are the bane of my existence and the object of all my desires. Except no one does. So, she waits. And waits. And waits.

While Lover Girl was yearning for someone to love her the way Westley loves Buttercup when he says, as you wish, men were playing video games in dark rooms.

They were not being trained to be the emotionally literate, selfless partners we were sold. They were told they would receive a perfect wife without effort. Comes with free cooking, cleaning, sex, therapy, scheduling, emotional labor.

This was the birth of Man Hater.

Man Hater sees patterns and sets boundaries. She is cynical, jaded, and suspicious. She believes in facts and logical reasoning more than butterflies. She is blunt, witty, sarcastic. She’s a fiercely loyal friend. She wears eyeliner, all black, and leather jackets. She smells of trees and grit. She reads, listens to podcasts, and has permanent side-eye. She will pick fights and defend backs. She is a feminist, activist, ally. Man Hater stands tall and unyielding.

And she started showing up on dates.

Not because she wanted to, but because optimism kept meeting silence. Lover Girl got tucked away in the deepest part of me. Protected. Guarded. Safe.

Man Hater is practical and extremely efficient. Her filters are rock solid. She uses her weapons carefully: sarcasm, direct questions, clear boundaries, walking away. Over time, her job became boring and predictable. The same types, the same scripts, copy pasted.

Men arrived with different faces but the same absence. They felt promising until the moment something real was required. Shallow. Selfish. Stunted.

I don’t even like men. I really don’t. They feel incompetent and emotionally constipated. And that is on the micro level. On the macro level, everything wrong with the world seems to trace back to men too: war, late-stage capitalism, colonization. Man Hater keeps the receipts.

She is not angry for sport. She is angry because she remembers. She keeps a ledger of every almost. Every “I’m just not ready for a relationship.” She is what grew in the gap between what we were promised and what we actually got.

Lover Girl kept mistaking availability for interest, interest for care. Man Hater told her the truth. One was intense but hollow. One disappeared the moment he was asked for clarity. Slowly, even Lover Girl began to believe it. Man Hater knows best.

Lover Girl felt herself fading. Don’t forget me, she cried quietly from inside.

Dating became less like connection and more like field research. Notes taken. Hypotheses tested. Conclusions repeated. Man Hater tried not to erode completely into bitterness. She put on a brave face.

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People started saying things like “you just have really high standards,” “you’re so good at choosing yourself,” “you’re so strong.” Man Hater, apparently, is perfect.

Online, women nod in agreement with her. We joke. We share stories. We say having a bad boyfriend is embarrassing. We clown men together. But offline, most people still seem to have a man. Or want one. Or are waiting to be chosen.

Not Man Hater though. “What a shame,” they say. “You are amazing! I can’t believe no one has snapped you up.” As if I’m a discounted candle.

Man Hater is tired of being the villain in everyone else’s narrative.

She is tired of being told she is too much, too guarded, too negative, when she is the reason Lover Girl is still in one piece. She doesn’t want this job, this armor, this constant vigilance. She wants a world where she is unnecessary.

But after everything she has seen, how could she trust anyone enough to step aside?

The truth is it is lonely being a Man Hater. But it is lonelier being a Lover Girl in a world that keeps proving she is unsafe.

Lover Girl is still here. Quiet. Bruised. Annoyingly alive. She wants to be known. She wants consistency. She wants to feel chosen without having to audition. She wants love as a practice, not a concept. She doesn’t want potential. She wants emotional availability. She wants someone to sit in the discomfort and stay.

Man Hater does not believe such a person exists.

They fight all the time. Man Hater usually wins. She has thicker skin, more evidence, more experience. Yet Lover Girl hangs on, patient, stubborn, softly hopeful. She refuses to die.

For now, Man Hater stands guard. She is the locked door. She is the no. She is the reason I don’t text back, don’t chase, don’t beg.

Lover Girl waits behind her. She hides in the first sip of morning coffee, in the warmth of a cat curled on my chest, in dancing in the kitchen to loud music, in the laughter at brunch, in doing eyeliner with friends in a too-small mirror. She lives in the tiny moments that feel like love, even without a man in the room.

Sometimes I wonder, does love even exist in the way I was taught to believe? What happens to a woman who loves deeply in a world that keeps asking her not to? At what point does self-protection start to look like bitterness? Is hating men the problem, or is it the consequence?

I don’t know.

Lover Girl still wants to breathe. And Man Hater still refuses to let her get hurt.

For now, they both live here, inside the same body. Two women sharing one heart, arguing quietly about whether it is better to keep it armored, or to keep it open.

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Given the current socio-economic, political hellscape, especially in the increasingly fascist-feeling US, the whole “fuck it, life is going to be shit anyway, might as well do what we actually like” mentality feels… refreshing. If we’re not going to make real money from soul-sucking corporate jobs, we might as well not make money from chasing our dreams instead. It feels like a tiny, unhinged middle finger to “the system.” You told me to go to school, get the degree, get the job. In return I was supposed to get a house, a car, maybe some kids and a retirement plan.

All of that feels laughably out of reach to me now, as a somewhat nihilistic, already-jaded 25-year-old. Jaded. At 25. Really?

I keep seeing this sentiment online with Gen Z. We got our peak social years stolen by a pandemic, and now we’re entering adulthood in one of the worst economies in recent history. So, we cope in the only ways we know how, sarcastic humor and iced coffee. You see it in the rise of unconventional jobs, creative careers, people resurrecting hobbies from childhood. The yearning for community is loud, but instead of giving another “we should be villagers” TedTalk or a boomer-bashing rant, I’m more interested in the crossroads we hit when pursuing passion versus being money-motivated.

Because once you finish the carefully scripted path (school, maybe university) suddenly, there’s no instruction manual. You’re standing at an intersection with a janky sign labeled something like: follow your dreams or earn a living. For most people, with student loans breathing down their necks, survival forces them down the “money first” path. For some, usually those with more safety nets, there’s actually a choice. Not caring about your future earning potential is a privilege. Being able to say, “I’ll just paint, write, do Pilates, make pottery, whatever, and see what happens” is a privilege. That doesn’t mean people can’t make money through the arts or creative work; some absolutely do. But the barriers to entry, the connections, the luck required means a lot of talented people never get seen. Cue the standard, but still true, speech about how nepotism sucks ass.

Still, so many of us quietly fantasize about opting out for something cooler. Working at a panda nursery. Being a surf instructor in Costa Rica. Skiing the Swiss Alps all winter. But then rent is due. That viral line, “everyone is an artist until rent is due,” sticks with me. How many incredible singers are alone in their bedrooms, heard by no one? How many animators are stuck making TikTok edits instead of films? How many dancers are only dancing in clubs instead of onstage?

I think about this a lot. Sylvia Plath’s fig tree metaphor on repeat.

A lot of us graduate bright-eyed and slightly insufferable after learning about everything wrong with the world. Climate change, poverty, inequality, social injustice; you name it, we wrote a paper about it. You walk out wanting to fix things, or at least not make them worse. You want to be useful, to help people, to add value beyond pumping quarterly earnings.

But, again, rent is due.

Reality taps you on the shoulder. The jobs that tangibly make the world less shitty—teachers, social workers, therapists, nurses, public servants, community organizers—often come with low pay, high stress, and burnout. They’re the backbone of society, yet somehow there’s never money for them. But we do have money for yet another 27-slide deck about “synergies” that someone half-outsourced to AI. Incredible how Jack’s shareholder value is fully funded, but your local school can’t afford basic supplies.

So, goodbye sustainability NGO, hello consulting. Goodbye grassroots justice work, hello finance, hello Big Tech, hello pharma marketing. New grads flood into these sectors not because they’re cartoon villains, but because the math is brutal. Profit over people isn’t just a slogan; it’s the water we’re swimming in. And the people who do choose the higher road often get rewarded with emotional exhaustion and a paycheck that barely covers groceries.

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This is where the blame gets blurry. Do you blame the individual who sells out to survive? Or the people who designed a system where you have to choose between impact and stability? Probably both. But it still leaves us with the same question: how do you find work that you like, that provides value to society, and that pays a livable wage? If someone knows the answer, please share. Is that even a realistic combination, or just the millennial/Gen Z pipe dream version of having it all? Good in theory but fictional in practice.

Sometimes I wonder if this tension is part of why decision-makers lean into short-term thinking. Shareholder primacy, quarterly returns, extraction, bureaucracy. They think, I need to provide for my generation, my shareholders. Future generations can fend for themselves. It’s survival.

This all resurfaced for me when a friend recently left his cushy consulting job to go work at Palantir. No shade, but also…shade. I get the temptation. The salary, the bonus, the brand name. Of course that’s attractive. And it’s easy to rationalize, you’re not personally pushing the button; you’re just a small piece of a big machine. Like Severance. But to what extent is that an excuse. Even if you’re living paycheck to paycheck, how far is it okay to go in compromising your values for money? At what point does, I just need to put food on the table, stop being a reason and start being a convenient shield?

I don’t say this from some moral high ground (although as a sustainability masters student, part of me does). The economy is shit. The stakes are high. Fear and scarcity make people do things they never imagined they’d do, and a lot of us are just trying not to sink. But I do think it’s worth pausing to ask: what are my values? Where is my line?

Ideally, more of us would be able to choose our work with intention, not just desperation. To weigh privilege, motivation, ethics, and joy, and then decide. Maybe, for some, this is actually a good time to say, “fuck it.” Not by burning everything down, but by taking a risk on something that feels aligned, even if it’s not the most lucrative option.

I don’t know if the money will follow. If things are going to be uncertain either way, I’d rather at least be moving in a direction that feels like mine instead of sprinting up a ladder I never wanted to climb in the first place.

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Gosh I really needed caffeine. It was one of those mornings where my eye bags were so dark I could’ve passed for a raccoon that got evicted from its trash can. I zoned out in the coffee line, then snapped back to reality when I saw it: a tiny Attack on Titan pin perched on someone’s backpack.

In an instant I was back in high school, hiding in my room, binging Tokyo Ghoul and Death Note, sketching anime characters and posting them to my corner of Instagram. I played Zelda and Skyrim, listened to what I thought was edgy alternative music, and spent most weekends in my own little universe. I wasn’t cool by any metric. I didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, didn’t hook up. I had a small group of lovely, down-to-earth friends who didn’t care that I was a nerd. Honestly, it was enough.

Then college happened. I started performing: I dialled down the anime, put away the sketchbook, and picked up a White Claw. Slowly, the “quirky” parts of me got tucked away. I wore crop tops and ripped jeans. I went to frat parties. I laughed at jokes that weren’t funny. It was fun, in a surface-level way. Dancing in a sweaty basement to 2010s pop music does bond you to people, even if they don’t actually know you that well.

At the same time, my life was getting objectively better by society’s standards. I was an engineering major, drowning in coursework, and in my free time I was rebranding. I went to the gym, did Pilates, walked on an incline like it was my job. I ate “clean,” cut sugar and carbs, and dropped around 30 pounds. It felt like I’d shed not just weight, but an entire version of myself. I became what high-school me thought she wanted: socially competent, prettier, more confident. I became more outgoing, more talkative, better at public speaking. I dressed well, smiled more, approached people instead of hiding in corners.

None of this was purely bad. But somewhere in the glow-up process, some of the weirdness, imagination, and solitude that used to anchor me got whittled down.

My hobbies morphed into more acceptable versions of themselves. I still made art, but it was flowers and landscapes instead of fan art. I still escaped into fantasy, but more through romantasy books and reality TV than through video games and manga. I swapped anime and board games for run clubs and Love Island. Childhood hobbies were replaced with adult-approved ones.

And then, at some point in the last five to ten years, the culture shifted. The same interests that once got you called weird suddenly became…cool. Everyone and their situationship had watched Demon Slayer. Arcane trended. Things I was lightly shamed for in high school were now edgy and desirable. Liking anime became “cultured.” Playing video games became “relatable to guys.” Being “not like other girls” industrialised into an aesthetic. Being hot and weird became quirky; being weird without the hot became, well, just weird.

So what actually changed? Did the culture become more accepting of “nerd stuff”? Or did we just decide certain versions of weirdness were allowed, as long as they were wrapped in socially acceptable packages? Is it more socially permissible to like anime now, or is it just that the people liking anime are prettier and more polished?

Sometimes it feels like our personalities are just patchworks of whatever is trending. One year it’s indie bands and polaroids. The next it’s run clubs and red wine. Then it’s Pilates, then it’s hot girl walks with a tote bag and matcha latte. How much of this is genuine evolution, and how much is us constantly rebranding to stay relatable and likeable to the people around us?

I don’t think conforming is inherently evil. There is something very human about wanting to be understood, to belong, to not have to explain every obscure interest you have. It is easier to talk about the latest Netflix show than to explain the extended lore of The Legend of Zelda to someone who has never held a controller. There is efficiency in the mainstream. You gain social ease, a shared language, shortcuts to connection.

But at what point does that social ease start to dilute the weirder, specific parts of you that made you you in the first place?

Is this just what growing up looks like, or is it social media brain rot slowly eroding our individuality? How much of our “glow-up” is authentic evolution, and how much is optimising ourselves to be more consumable? More dateable, more employable, more palatable to strangers online?

I catch myself editing out my nerdier side in conversations. I don’t mention how much I still think about Studio Ghibli films, or that I know the rules of obscure board games by heart, or that Avatar: The Last Airbender still lives rent-free in my head. I assume no one cares, or that it will make me harder to relate to. And to be clear, this isn’t some anti-pop-culture manifesto. Liking mainstream things doesn’t make you shallow, and liking niche things doesn’t make you deep. But I do wonder: what do we owe our younger selves? Are we supposed to keep liking the same interests forever as proof of authenticity? Or is it okay to gently put them down, like toys we’ve outgrown, and trust that the versions of us who loved them still existed and mattered?

There are so many sentences that start with “I should” in my head. I should draw more. I should finish that show. I should pick up that game again. Then reality answers with the usual: you have work, school, commuting, socialising, attempting to sleep, attempting to be a functioning adult. Being a person is already a full-time job; being a fully expressed one feels like overtime.

Most of us grew up in a time when social media accelerated everything: growing up, curating, comparing, consuming. Boredom used to push you inward; now it pushes you to scroll. Algorithms serve you what you “should” watch, read, listen to, wear. Instead of wandering into weird interests on our own, we get served a rotating carousel of pre-approved aesthetics.

Everything starts to feel like performance. The books you read, the concerts you go to, the hobbies you pick up all become potential content. It almost benefits you to play along. Become conventionally attractive and suddenly people are kinder. Start following popular trends and suddenly conversation is easier. Opt in to the shared script and social life gets less awkward, more frictionless.

But where is the line between adapting and dissolving? Between evolving your interests and abandoning them because they don’t fit the vibe? How do you balance staying up to date enough to connect with people while still self-selecting the weird, niche, specific things that actually light you up?

I don’t have a neat answer. What I do know is that I miss the version of myself who could spend hours drawing fanart without wondering if it was “cringe.” I miss being into things because they were interesting, not because they were aesthetic.

I don’t think the solution is to throw away your phone and move to a cabin and only watch underground anime from 2007. I also don’t think the solution is to surrender fully to the recommended-for-you page and let it design your personality. The real question feels more like: how do you find a balance between being socially fluent and deeply yourself?

This year, I want to experiment with that balance. I want to unplug a little more, not in a dramatic digital detox way, but in a “what would I pick if no one was watching?” way. What would I read if I couldn’t post it? What would I draw if no one would ever see it? What would I do on a Saturday if I wasn’t trying to make my life look like a mood-board? I don’t need applause for achieving the kind of life everyone else has declared worthy.

Maybe the goal isn’t to return to the exact person I was, hiding in my room with anime and sketchbooks. Maybe the goal is to honour her. To occasionally choose the less “relatable” thing, just because it delights me. To let myself have side quests that don’t make sense to anyone else. To remember that being interesting is not just about being up to date, but being specific, and sometimes even a little bit strange.

I hope I don’t look like I’m trying too hard, I thought, slipping on my oversized green thrifted leather jacket from Copenhagen. I was going for chic, effortless cool girl; put together and stable, but casually. He would get that, wouldn’t he? I was getting ready to meet my ex for the first time in 3.5 years.

I wasn’t even planning on texting him, I swear. When I studied abroad in London, we met and instantly hit it off, spending seven hours together on our first date. I knew I was going to date him in that moment, as disgusting as it sounds. Our relationship—if you could even call it that—lasted exactly as long as my study abroad: four months. My very first boyfriend experience, wrapped neatly into one semester.

I was obsessed with the accent, the charming character, the overall calming presence he had. Everything we did felt novel: cat cafés, the cinema, picnics in the park, fancy dinners, museums. Looking back, he was an integral part of my study abroad experience. Who knew the program would come with a tall, dark, handsome Brit for me to be fully “culturally immersed” with.

We both knew it had an expiration date. That didn’t stop the feels, for me, anyway. As my flight back to America got closer, the question sat between us like a third person on every date: was this going to stay a whirlwind rom-com, or become an actual long-distance relationship? I asked him to write me a goodbye letter, which was really just cover for my ten-year-old self’s dream of a handwritten love letter.

A couple days later, I got the dreaded text: “I just can’t do long distance.” Fair enough. At least one of us was being reasonable. We barely knew each other. I had a degree to finish; he had a job to get. Logically, it wasn’t going to work.

On our last date, we exchanged letters. His was a beautifully written rhyming poem. Annoying, honestly. Why make it harder? “Goodbye, goodbye, it sucks that you are moving so far away. Farewell, farewell, this isn’t necessarily the end, just a pause, and let it possibly resume another day,” he wrote. He kissed me the hardest I’ve ever been kissed. Then we got on the Tube so I could go home and finish packing. He hopped off, curls bouncing as he stepped out of my life forever.

Or so I thought.

I’ve always loved London. The memories, the culture, the city somehow vibrant in soul even when the sky absolutely isn’t. I wanted to come back. I just didn’t know how. Until I was burning out at my corporate America job and thought, hmm, what about a panic master’s degree to delay real life. Where better than London?

So back I went, three years later, for a shiny new degree. By then, I had gotten over the romantic study-abroad fling. I finished my engineering degree, backpacked Europe, moved to DC, worked my big-girl job. I built identity capital. Things I probably wouldn’t have done if I’d been tied to a reserved, shy Brit five hours ahead of me.

As my cab driver took me through London, I watched my younger self sprint across the streets in my mind, not a care in the world. I could do this. Move to another country by myself. Make friends again. I’d done it once; I could do it twice. I therefore absolutely did not need to text my ex.

Full disclosure: we had kept in vague contact after the breakup. A “Merry Christmas” here, a “how’ve you been?” there every few months. Then, gradually, radio silence. During one of those rare catch-ups, he mentioned he’d been seeing a Canadian girl. Knock-off me, okay. He cautiously floated that he might move to Canada for her. Just like with us, he’d come to the “do we do long distance?” crossroads. This time the answer seemed like yes.

It was…a lot. Cue the mental spiral: why not me? How could he refuse long distance with me, then be ready to move continents for her? My brain had to reconcile the data. Had he changed? Was she just more compatible? Lower expectations? It took a while to process that contradiction. Still, I meant it when I typed, “Happy for you!” He genuinely was a good guy, and I wanted him to be happy, even if it seemed to close the London door for me.

So when I was riding in that cab to my student accommodation, I did not text, “Hey, I live in London now btw.”

A few months went by. I adjusted to the new routine, figured out my local grocery store, set up my room, learned the bus routes, pretended to have a sleep schedule. And then, like a teenage girl in a YA novel, I caved and stalked his socials.

Interesting.

His profile picture showed him climbing a mountain in Indonesia. Not exactly settled in Canada with the almost wife vibes. Fine. I guess I could reach out, then.

I worked up the courage and hit send. He replied quickly. Warm, friendly, telling me he was on a months-long trip saving turtles and traveling through Australia. Something I would literally never have pictured him doing. Immediate conclusion: soul-searching post-breakup. Score. Likely single.

He hinted at meeting up, and I gobbled up the bait. Which is how I ended up doing eyeliner and dousing myself in perfume, jacket on, spiraling about looking like I was trying too hard.

I stood at the Tube station, waiting. This is so weird. I haven’t seen him in ages; I don’t even know him anymore. Then I turned, and we locked eyes.

It was a face I knew and didn’t know at the same time. Like recognizing a celebrity from a show you watched years ago. I had been as intimate with this person as you can be, and yet he felt like a stranger. It is jarring to stand in front of someone who has seen you at your most vulnerable and realize you now know nothing about each other.

We started with small talk, catching up like old friends. I was excited to show him the life I’d built, the stronger sense of self I’d grown into. I talked about my travels, my job, my friends, my new adult hobbies. He talked about his job, his trips, his hobbies. I got the sense he felt stuck—lost, a bit directionless. He had quit his job recently and gone traveling. He was still living with his parents, seeing the same friends, trying to get his driver’s license, unemployed. He was in a transitional phase. So was I, just maybe with a bit more direction.

As we talked, our differences became louder. Different stages, different priorities, different goals, different views. Every now and then, I’d reference something from the past—his brothers, his hatred for coffee, the fact he used to play soccer. To me, it felt natural. I remember things about people, even when they’re no longer in my life. I still remember that my evil college roommate liked hippos.

My ex, however, refused to acknowledge the elephant in the room: that we had ever dated. He didn’t bring up the past. He didn’t even hint that he remembered anything about me. It was like I’d been wiped from the hard drive.

It stung. Not in a I’m still in love with you way, but in an ego way. It hurt that what we shared seemed to no longer matter to him. That I was…forgettable.

To my surprise, relationships never came up. Not mine, not his. No “are you seeing anyone?” No mention of my theorized breakup. He said he was staying in London for the foreseeable future, which, in my head, translated to: they probably broke up. Again, not that I care. Obviously.

We wandered, ate, drank, swapped book recommendations. Four hours passed. After the second beer, it was time to go. A small part of me wasn’t opposed to a cheeky backslide, but I knew it wasn’t happening. He had me firmly in the friend zone. Not even the friend zone, really. The “I once knew you and now I don’t really care anymore” zone.

Before the obligatory awkward side hug, he said he’d had a good time and that we should do it again sometime. I couldn’t tell if it was genuine or just British politeness. I left more confused than when I arrived.

Back in my room, I did what any self-respecting overthinker would do: psychoanalyzed the entire interaction from every possible angle. Hours later, I still couldn’t decode his behavior. All I knew was this: it was probably a good thing our timing never worked out.

Seeing him closed the loop. The what-ifs quieted. The let it possibly resume another day was clearly not today, and maybe not any day. And maybe, just maybe, I was okay with that. I didn’t need to prove that he was the only man who would ever like me. Or that we were secretly soulmates, tragically separated by time zones and visa statuses. It wasn’t just wrong time, right person. It was wrong time and wrong person.

That realization felt like relief. I had mostly let go of him before, but now I could let go completely. Let him become what he actually is now: a full stranger. One I no longer need to know.