Ghosted By Dream Guy

You know those dates where you just know? Where your entire body does a little internal happy dance and you’re like, “Oh. There you are. Been waiting.” Well, buckle in – because I had one of those. And, in true London dating fashion, it ended in a glorious, ghosty car crash.

So let’s rewind. I matched with this guy on Hinge. His pics? Let’s just say… modest. You know the type – blurry group shot, awkward selfie, one random photo of a dog that may be his or may belong to a stranger in the park. But something about his profile had a glimmer of my type. Tall? Check. Slightly athletic? Seemed likely. And he could spell, which, frankly, is half the battle these days.

We agreed to meet for a drink. Casual. Low pressure. No expectations… except when he walked up to me, I practically melted into the pavement. Tall, broad shoulders, blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, kind smile. If Thor had a slightly more emotionally intelligent younger brother, it was him. I nearly texted my mum right then and there, just to let her know that, yes, the drought was over and the family Christmas card was sorted.

The conversation was effortless – witty banter, vulnerable nuggets, even the odd deep dive into music, travel and life regrets. It was like ticking off my own personal emotional bingo card. He told me he’d just broken up with his German girlfriend. Slight red flag, sure, but he assured me it was over. Like, over-over. She’d only recently popped round to pick up her stuff and had burst into tears. But he felt bad for her, not conflicted. So he said.

A whisper of doubt crept in. Was he really over her? Or was I just the human distraction from a freshly bruised ego?

Still, the vibes were immaculate. I did what I always do when I like someone – I ordered another drink. And another. And maybe one more for good measure. I didn’t want the night to end. I was tipsy, giddy, and utterly hypnotised by this Norse god of a man telling me I was easy to talk to.

As the night air turned chilly, we moved inside. I was seated right by a draughty door – classic. I asked if he’d come sit next to me, in part because I was cold, and in part because I wanted to bridge the awkward first-date space and get a bit closer. A nudge here, a graze there… you know the drill. But instead of sliding in like a smooth operator, he looked… startled? Like I’d just asked if he wanted to adopt a dog and meet my nan.

The vibe shifted. Fast. Suddenly, the date wrapped up. He walked me to the bus stop (sweet), gave me a hug, and said something about a cycle date soon (adorable). I practically floated home, tipsy and smitten, picturing us gliding through Regent’s Park on matching bikes, brunching in quirky cafés, arguing over Spotify playlists.

Reader, he ghosted me.

I sent a couple of cute, casual messages – “Hey, hope your weekend’s going well :)” – the usual fishing lines. Nada. For a week, I convinced myself Hinge was broken. Surely he’d replied and I just didn’t get the notification?

But deep down, I knew. Ghosted. By someone I actually liked. The worst kind.

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? These types of dates don’t just sting – they sucker-punch you in the gut. Because for a few hours, you let your guard down. You imagined a ‘what if’. You shared a laugh, a story, maybe even a tiny part of your heart. And then? Nothing. Silence. Not even the decency of a “Hey, I’m not feeling it.” Just radio silence from Mr. Perfect Face.

So, here I am. Slightly hungover, slightly heartbruised, and fully overanalysing every micro-expression he ever made. Was it the way I asked him to sit next to me? Was I too keen? Not keen enough? Did I have coriander in my teeth?

Who knows. All I know is this: I’ll be back on the apps soon. Swiping, sipping, and hoping for the next Thor-lookalike who won’t disappear into the digital ether.

Until then, dear reader – remember: dating is a game of snakes and ladders. And I’ve just landed squarely on a snake.

Catch you on the next heartbreak. Or, hopefully, a cycle date that actually happens.