Recently, I met a guy I felt like I could fully be myself around. I felt welcomed. Accepted. Maybe even as though I was not too much.

Until I got ghosted.

We met at a DJ performance two weeks ago, at a time when I had no intention of giving my attention to anyone besides my sister.

Dancing had always been my weapon. I don’t let myself think. My body just flows with the rhythm. Music and I become opposite poles of a magnet. The pull becomes undeniable. Irreversible.

I think that is how it feels when you truly let yourself be.

Maybe that’s why dancing feels like a shelter.

Dancing is a form of expression. I don’t believe in restrictions when it comes to creative exploration. I admire watching people dance.

Those who understand it tend to find their way into my orbit.

More often than not, people are interested in my image, not the real me. It is about how it makes them feel to be around me. They take a dose of it. Feel the sense of accomplishment. It is the most primitive way of thinking:

“Oh look, a pretty girl. Let me prove to myself that I can get her.”

I remember the exact moment he lowered his glasses, looked at me, and silently signed me off as his new target.

That same weekend, on Sunday, I also had a date with someone else. Someone I had met the weekend before. I was excited about him. The glasses guy barely mattered.

I watched him slowly make his way over to me until suddenly his face was right across from mine. I smiled and tried dancing with him.

His arms floated unevenly. He swung his head far too much. His jumps were oddly repetitive.

He seemed weird.

I brushed him off after giving him two minutes of my attention.

Yet somehow, he found his way back into my orbit.

Later, his goofiness started feeling cute instead of awkward.

My mental compulsions had a way of getting ahead of my instincts.

I didn’t realise that when someone tries this hard to get your attention, they often lose interest the moment they have it.

I didn’t kiss him that night. I wanted to play hard to get. That was the new promise I made to myself after hearing the same advice over and over again:

“Be yourself less. Don’t give everything away just yet.”

While I kept failing at the first one, the second had been the one I was experimenting with. Nowadays, I seemed to be good at it.

He smiled and said,
“I’m happy to wait.”

The next day he texted:

“How’s my favourite dance partner doing?”

After two back-and-forth replies, I forgot about his existence.

On Sunday, I went on the date I was excited for. We had a meet-cute. He was destined to be my boyfriend.

I shouldn’t have allowed myself to watch so many chick flicks.

It was an okay kind of date. He was not the one. I was sure of it. Yet, so far, I had only had two boyfriends. I was hungry for experience.

Regardless, we had three pints and chatted for around three hours. After two pints, his face started getting red. He was still good-looking.

He said something about almost being hammered. I literally saw him, in between his sentences, turning his face around and making a comment to himself.

“This is actually going really well.”

When we finished our last pint, once again, he went to the toilet.

I get it, we were drinking beer.

When he came back, the first thing he said, without even sitting down, was:

“I think I’m going to get going.”

I was shocked.

Not because he needed to go, but because it was so sudden.

I must have done something that threw him off like that.

I felt like saying something and, in the past, whenever there was awkwardness in a situation, I almost always addressed it.

I learned that I shouldn’t be doing that.

So, I swallowed my sentence and immediately stood up.

My self-confidence was ruined by my negative self-talk.

Another awkward moment arrived following our forced kiss.

When I pulled my face back, the same sentence crawled its way upward.

I blurted half of the sentence, then cut myself off in the middle.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

I usually hated when that was asked. It always forced me to gaslight my intuition about the situation.

I said yes, turned my back, and walked in the opposite direction.

He, on the other hand, didn’t even stall for a minute before carelessly walking away himself.

My anxiety started kicking in.

I ruined another almost-never-happening.

I couldn’t help but send him a text.

“Thanks for the drinks, by the way. I didn’t have a chance to tell you.”

I expected he’d reply.

He didn’t. Ever.

I couldn’t help feeding the expectation of waking up to a notification on my phone the next day.

I didn’t.

I sent another message:

“Did something happen that made you leave so suddenly yesterday? I was just curious.”

If I was never going to see him again, I could at least have his feedback.

All I got in return was silence.

It took me a day to get over it. I barely knew him.

The refusal to give an answer somehow makes the other person feel better about themselves. It satisfies their ego. They get to define the narrative.

They have control.

Two days later, I replied to the glasses guy. Apologising for my late reply and picking up the conversation from where I left off.

He asked me to go see a DJ on Saturday night.

I wanted to, but I had training at 9 AM the next day. I told him I could meet him for drinks until he went to the event.

He said he’d scout the best spot for us.

I felt very confident going into that date. I had the upper hand with him.

It somehow went perfectly.

I had the kind of conversation I longed for without thinking that I was boring the other person. We discussed philosophy, psychology, and criticised modern conversations that revolved around the weather.

We even wrote a poem together.

I asked him if he had invited someone else to go to the concert with him. He said he hadn’t and implied that, deep down, he had hoped maybe I would accompany him.

I said I would.

The concert was like a movie scene.

Their lead singer was badass. We were dancing, vibing, and holding our bodies close to each other. We had chemistry.

While we were dancing, an old lady threw herself from the back of the venue toward where we stood.

She raised her arms up, jumping and dancing like crazy.

Then she saw me. I have to thank her, she really boosted my confidence with her compliments. She asked the glasses guy if he knew how lucky he was.

He said yes. Very much.

The concert ended, but there was still stuff going on in the venue. I told him I had to go. I had to prioritise my training. Sort of. It was 3 AM.

He said there was no reason for him to stay if I left.

We walked outside together.

“Where are you planning to go?” I asked.

“Well, I was thinking I could come with you. If not, I’m happy to get an Uber home.”

I thought I should decline it.

I said yes.

We spent the night together, but our bodies didn’t touch the way you’d expect.

I was playing hard to get. At least the kind that would not give away her “power” during the first date.

He said he was happy to wait. That tension somehow made it even better. He kept telling me how great it would be when we finally did it.

I woke up earlier than I should have because I was afraid of being late to my training. We left my place around 9 AM, and he offered to walk with me to the Underground.

We bought coffee along the way, and I said, “This is where we depart,” when we arrived in front of the train station.

He said he was thinking of coming upstairs with me. He didn’t mind tapping his card in and out, then ended up taking the subway with me to my destination.

He was going to get an Uber from there.

I had always been a chatty morning person. He said he liked it and that I energised him. I started sharing my entire stream of thoughts, then apologised for it. He said he found it cute.

He walked me to Regent’s University, where I had my training. We kissed and said goodbye, and his last words were:

“I’ll text you later.”

He did. I knew he would.

It was the perfect first date.

During the week, our message thread kept flowing back and forth.

He suggested we meet on Sunday because he had a music festival gig he had to attend on Friday and Saturday.

He worked at a label company.

I replied to his last message half a day later on Thursday, casually continuing the conversation.

He didn’t reply.

I didn’t question it at first. I also hadn’t replied to him for four days before we had our first date. There was a time I responded to someone a month later.

It was casual. Nothing big.

The deadline I gave myself in my head was Sunday morning before I allowed myself to spiral. I was sure I’d wake up to a message from him until then.

I didn’t.

My mind kept generating scenarios to stop me from believing what was really happening.

Earlier, we were texting through iMessage. I thought he might have missed the notifications. There were times I did.

I caught him online on WhatsApp.

I couldn’t help but send him another message that said:

“I wouldn’t expect to be ghosted by you.
Anyway.
Take care.”

He switched our chat’s settings to disappearing messages.

I was really hopeful about this one.

Everything went perfectly.

The only explanation my mind could settle on was that he had a girlfriend.

But if he had a girlfriend, why did he bother meeting with me?

Why did he plan the next date?

Was I simply providing him with the feeling of being chosen until it no longer mattered because he had already proved to himself that he could?

I was just tired of being disappointed.

I still am.