I should’ve known something was off when I saw his name on Hinge—Victor (like the Tim Burton movie character). But I was 31, two years single, and fresh off a therapy breakthrough. In Dublin, where commitment-phobia had reached epidemic proportions, I was full of wild hope that this time I’d finally meet a guy who actually wanted more than a situationship.
So I told myself, “What the heck, Mimi,” and swiped right—mostly because his first message didn’t make me want to gouge my eyes out.
I’d put genuine effort into my profile—no heavily filtered photos that barely resembled me. No vague interests that could appeal to anyone. I only wanted to match with people who were interested in me. Do I even need to mention that the match avalanche didn’t follow?
Six months of swiping left me numb, hope dying one bad pickup line at a time.
Then Victor appeared.
Our chat started surprisingly well. No “hey beautiful” or “what’s a girl like you doing on an app like this?” Just genuine questions and actual conversation. What a breath of fresh air!
Then he vanished.
I checked my matches twice, then three times. Victor was gone. A glitch, surely. The app must have malfunctioned.
In a moment of what I can only describe as temporary insanity, I created a new profile, found him, and messaged: “Hey, weird app glitch? You disappeared from my matches!” He responded immediately. “Oh, strange! Technology, right? Let’s move to texting so it doesn’t happen again.”
Once we moved to text, Victor sent a voice note. I hesitated before playing it—voice notes felt premature, intimate in a way I wasn’t ready for. But maybe I was just being old-fashioned. Maybe voice notes were the new “hello” in dating app land.
His voice was deeper than I expected. “I want to be upfront with you,” he said. “I’m a recovering alcoholic. Four years sober next month. I understand if that’s a deal-breaker.”
The honesty stunned me. In a world of strategic omissions, here was raw vulnerability. I respected it.
“What the hell,” I thought. “Let’s give this a shot.”
We met for coffee and a walk along the river. He wasn’t what I’d pictured for myself, but then again, all the men I had pictured for myself had eventually pictured themselves with someone else. Maybe it was time to rewrite the script.
The date was… nice. We laughed. We watched ducks. We shared thoughts deeper than “Do you like pizza?” He listened when I spoke—actually listened, not just waited for his turn to talk.
For our second date, he invited me to a sound bath meditation. Just my kind of thing. I slowly started seeing it.
Three weeks passed. We met twice a week—not too much, not too little. He was present. Honest. Transparent. A unicorn in the toxic swamp of modern dating.
Then one evening, after dinner, I kissed him (I still cringe just thinking about it). When we pulled apart, he looked at me like I was something precious.
“Tennis tomorrow?” he asked. “Tennis tomorrow,” I confirmed.
The next morning, he texted that he needed to grab tennis balls from Intersport, and then we’d see each other at 5:00 on the courts.
“Tennis tomorrow?” he asked. “Tennis tomorrow,” I confirmed.
At 4:45, I arrived at the courts. At 5:05, I checked my phone. No messages. At 5:10, I messaged asking where was he. At 5:30, I called. No signal.
In a moment of investigative brilliance (or desperate delusion), I dialed from my work number. It rang. He picked up. I hung up.
Tried my primary number again. Still no signal.
Oh.
The realization hit me: he had blocked me. He freaking blocked me mid-conversation!
And if you think this is messed up… wait.
Three months later, my phone buzzed with a notification: “You have a new message on Hinge.” Victor’s face stared back at me from my screen.
“Hey stranger,” his message read. “Long time no see. How’ve you been?”
As if nothing had happened. As if we were old friends who’d simply lost touch.
Convince me men on dating apps aren’t complete psychos. I’ll wait.
