The Almost Date
Some connections aren't connections. They're collisions disguised as conversations.
How It Started
We met online, like everyone does nowadays. Honestly, I couldn't even tell you the app, only that it began simply, quietly. A casual hello spiraled quickly into confessions, traumas, loneliness All spilling out within the span of a late-night chat. She needed someone, anyone, to catch her falling. I never imagined I'd be the one reaching out my hands.
I was deep in my own post-breakup fog, craving distraction more than connection. Yet her honesty was disarming. Raw. Frantic, but oddly sincere. She shared her story like I was a diary with typing skills, and I responded, half intrigued and half bewildered. How does someone become this transparent, this quickly?
Days later, she proposed drinks. Instinctively, I hesitated, but somehow hesitation twisted itself into agreement. A maybe became a beer.
The Shift
Face-to-face, she was exactly who she was online, but louder. Her words filled every inch of space between us, an avalanche of self-doubt, anxious jokes, and confessional spirals. I listened, mostly silent, wondering how I had even ended up in this scene. When the night closed, I politely walked her to her bike and tossed out the perfunctory "We'll keep in touch." It wasn’t genuine, but it seemed harmless enough.
She, however, took it literally.
Within days, my phone buzzed relentlessly. Screenshots of texts with her ex, paragraphs of emotional autopsies, questions without answers: "Was I too much?" "Did he ever love me?" She treated me like her therapist, her confessional, her emotional sponge. I tried kindness at first, offered bits of neutral wisdom, until eventually, honesty prevailed. I couldn’t carry this. It wasn't mine to hold. My message was gentle but final. She didn’t reply.
The Fallout
Months of quiet followed until suddenly, there she was again. Pictures from Norway and a casual question, as though resetting history: "Should I go back to school?"
I blinked at the screen, unsure whether this was nostalgia or amnesia. Yet, curiosity got the better of me. We exchanged cautious pleasantries, and when she suggested a walk, I hesitated once more. Then agreed anyway.
The walk was pleasant. Calm, even. Her energy was grounded, less chaotic, and for a moment I wondered if this was our equilibrium. Just occasional strolls and filtered honesty.
But it didn't last. The texts began anew, spiraling toward the familiar. Recognizing the impending chaos, I decided to exit clearly and honestly. “I'm seeing someone later tonight. Just dinner,” I confessed softly.
She paused, confused. “Dinner? Like… a date?”
I didn't pretend otherwise. “Yes, kind of.”
Another pause, followed by disbelief. “Wait, didn’t you just go on a date with me?”
I tried clarifying, but her tone shifted rapidly from confusion to bitter certainty: “You're all the same. You just want something from me.” The conversation ended there, curtained by silence. Intentional, final, blocked.
Note to Self
Some people aren't seeking connections; they're seeking witnesses. They need validation of their chaos without complication or reciprocity. And sometimes, out of curiosity or misplaced empathy, we agree to carry emotional baggage that never belonged to us, convinced our shoulders are broad enough to bear the weight.
I wasn't the villain of her story, but neither was I the hero she imagined. Ultimately, she wasn't what I needed either. Still, there’s a lingering ache in being cast as a disposable character in someone else's unresolved narrative. Next time, pay attention to the script you're agreeing to before you find yourself written into scenes you never intended to star in.
