Temu Zachary Quinto

So there I was, deep in my "no time for chit-chat" phase of dating. You know the one — where you’re utterly over exchanging 57 messages about your favourite pizza topping before someone finally grows a spine and asks, “Wanna meet?”

Enter: Hinge match. Looked exactly like Zachary Quinto if you bought him off Temu. Which, to be fair, is still a solid 7.2/10. Bit budget Spock, bit he probably does CrossFit but doesn’t talk about it, and somehow... oddly appealing.

Anyway, he was keen. Chatty. Texting like a man who still believed in digital courtship. I, on the other hand, was in a “just say when and where, let’s suss out the vibes in real life” mood.

So I gave him the texting equivalent of shrugging — dry, blunt replies with just enough engagement to be polite but not so much he’d think I was planning our wedding.

A couple of days go by. I hadn’t been on a date in a while and thought, sod it, why not? I dusted off my optimism and messaged him out of the blue:“Wanna grab a drink?” Boom. Spontaneous. Mysterious. Sexy? (Unclear.)

He was intrigued enough to say yes. I suggested a bar near mine — solid choice, dark lighting, cocktails with silly names, the usual. He showed up ten minutes late, which gave me plenty of time to spiral and wonder if I’d accidentally agreed to meet a catfish or a man who collects samurai swords.

Then he walked in. Very British. Very awkward. You could smell the social discomfort from three tables away. I tried to kick things off with some friendly banter but... the conversation was like pulling teeth. Teeth that really didn’t want to come out.

Still, I powered on like a true soldier of love, until he hit me with this absolute pearler:

“I’m surprised you suggested we meet. I honestly thought you’d been hacked.”

Sorry, what?

I laughed, nervously. As you do when you’re suddenly not sure if you're on a date or being judged by your date. He doubled down, saying the texting had been “so cold” and then, “suddenly you wanted to meet? I was just... intrigued to see what kind of person would do that.”

Was that a roast? A backhanded compliment? A mild interrogation? I genuinely couldn’t tell. My brain was buffering.

Sensing the rapidly decaying energy, I offered a diplomatic exit:“Should we leave?”

And then he delivered the line that will echo in my brain forever:

“You can go. But I’m going to stay a while.”

Reader, I left.

Tail between legs. Utterly bewildered. Half-convinced I’d just been told off on a date. I walked home trying to piece together what the hell had just happened. Had I broken some sacred etiquette of modern dating? Was spontaneity now offensive?

Either way, one thing’s for sure: I’ve never met someone who accepted a date just to “see what kind of weirdo” would suggest one.

Turns out, it was me. I was the weirdo.

And somewhere, Temu Zachary Quinto is probably still at that bar, sipping his IPA and reflecting on the mysterious blunt girl who appeared like a glitch in his dating matrix.

Lesson learned? Maybe.Would I do it again? …Probably. See you next time for another tale from the frontline of modern romance.