Ghosted At Gin O’Clock

You know when you match with someone and it's just… yes? Like, the algorithm really outdid itself this time. Blonde hair, blue eyes, a smile that screamed "trouble" in the best possible way—exactly my type. No preamble, no week-long chat build-up, just a quick “you free tonight?” and boom, Saturday plans were set. I was bored, he was available, and honestly, it all felt quite serendipitous in that chaotic, possibly-regrettable-but-let's-risk-it way.

I told him to meet me at my local. A proper gem of a pub—cosy, slightly chaotic, with gin that could fix heartbreak and break your bank account all in one glass. He said he knew the area well; went to uni around here. So I assumed he'd breeze in, slightly smug with nostalgia, and we'd toast to spontaneous decisions.

Reader, I arrived five minutes late (fashionably, of course), and he was nowhere to be seen.

Cue: awkward solo loitering while pretending to text (a fine art), followed by ding—a message.

“I’m here. Bit of a dive, where are you?”

A dive?! Babe, unless you’ve confused “pub” with “alleyway”, you’re definitely not here. My place was buzzing, wall-to-wall bodies and bad decisions. I told him to check again. He replied saying he could only see three drunk blokes at the bar.

That’s when I knew—he was in the wrong pub. Not just the wrong pub, but the wrong side of town. Literally miles away. How you can claim to “know the area well” and still end up in a pub that looks like it hosts darts tournaments and regret is beyond me. He sent his location and, yep, he’d gone rogue.

He said it’d take him an hour to get to me.

Now, I don’t do well with waiting. I’m not a patient woman. My idea of a long wait is a Deliveroo that takes over 10 minutes. I gave him a bit of sass over text (just a light grilling, really), befriended the bouncer (shoutout to the legend who kept me laughing), downed two gins, and decided to wait.

Eventually, in he walks. Dreamy. Like, annoyingly attractive. If I’d known he looked that good, I might’ve saved my snarky texts and just sent my location with a heart emoji. The Jamaican bouncer clapped eyes on him and said, “Why’d you let such a pretty girl wait so long for you, man?” Honestly, good question.

But as with all fairy tales, a few red flags made an early entrance.

Flag one: Just got out of a long-term relationship. I know, classic. Flag two: Also seeing someone else from Hinge. Not illegal, not even shocking, but did I need to know? Absolutely not. We moved past it. Gins were flowing, lips were meeting, and at one point it was borderline PG-13 in the corner booth. I even got that little fluttery feeling—the one you pretend isn’t there while mentally planning wedding invites.

He tried to come home with me (predictable), but I was a lady that night, and told him he’d have to wait. We arranged another date instead. Spoiler: it was brilliant. We clicked, laughed, and I was basically already scribbling our initials in the margins of my diary like a lovesick teenager.

He mentioned this rooftop sauna place he wanted to try, said we should go together. Sauna dates? In this economy? I was in.

Then came the text.

Not even his words, really—he blamed his mate for encouraging him to “do the right thing.”

“I’m not into anything serious right now... just came out of something... but I really like you and still want to hang out and go to the sauna.”

Classic softboi code for “I like you enough to keep you around, but not enough to make it official.” And yet, there I was, genuinely hurt. Because somehow, I was having relationship drama with someone I wasn’t even in a relationship with.

I knew myself. I was catching feels, and no amount of rooftop steam could clear that up. So I said I couldn’t do it.

And that was it. No dramatic ending, no “let’s just be friends”, no postscript. Just a very cute almost-boyfriend who couldn’t read a map and broke my heart just a little bit.

Took me a while to bounce back from that one, not gonna lie. The worst part? Every time someone mentions rooftop saunas, I flinch slightly.

But hey, at least the bouncer's on my side.

Moral of the story? If he says he knows the area, double-check. If he shows up an hour late but looks like a Disney prince—still double-check. And if he’s “not ready for anything serious,” believe him the first time. Your heart (and your gin budget) will thank you later.

Stay tuned, heartbreakers. The dating saga continues…