The music still echoed in Tyla’s ears as she walked in the direction of the bar. She double-checked both the map and her messages in case Jerome texted. She was only a little nervous. Thankfully, they’d have something to talk about over dinner and drinks. She’d just come from a Billie Eilish listening party, and Jerome was a musician.

Over a year ago, she downloaded Hinge after the end of a four-year relationship. It had been one of those “over before it ended” kind of breakups. Then she matched with Jerome. This led to a sparky, fun first date where they bonded over food, music, and a few shared vices. Perhaps she had talked too much, but she found herself on a second date with him anyway.

Tyla racked her brain as she approached the Brooklyn bar, where she would be meeting him tonight. She considered what details from their second date were important. They had both spent too much time on their phones, she remembered with a wince. She had shown up to that date feeling distracted, still in the midst of a very non-linear healing process. She was in her “messy era,” as she liked to call it. 

They’d kissed at the park at some point, which made things feel salvageable, but then Jerome said he needed a break from dating. She had to remind herself (more than once) not to take his hiatus personally. The way he asked for space was so sincere and admirable — the fact that he knew what he needed made him more attractive. He would be hard to forget.

It had been six months since they last met. There was no question of whether or not Tyla was into him. During those six months, she’d been the one sending DMs, listening to his music, liking his photos. Even amid three dysfunctional “casual” relationships, her soul feeling plucked from her body, Jerome was always in the back of her mind. The question now was whether this was more than a fling. Tyla decided to be realistic. Chemistry online didn’t always translate to real life, even if they’d kissed. Even if she’d played his songs over and over again.

She thought about how much she’d talked on the first date, her awkwardness and lack of presence on the second. 

Maybe I’m too much for him.

Tyla’s easy to talk to, he reminded himself. He kept checking the door to see if she had arrived. The bar was dimly lit, filled with people both seated and standing, the fireplace crackling across the room. He looked over the menu while he waited, hungry after a long shift. 

He hadn’t seen Tyla since their last date, so naturally his nerves were dancing. But, after six months of singledom and serious introspection, tonight felt like a small celebration. He needed somewhere safe to land, a low-pressure interaction to ease him back into the dating world. Tyla felt like the right person.

On their first date, he’d mentioned being gluten-free. She hadn’t batted an eye, ordering mussels, octopus carpaccio, caviar pearls. They shared a love of eating. They had a lot in common, actually, but she was also very different. Smarter than him, maybe one of the smartest people he’d ever met. An encyclopedia of a person. She’d told him all about her work in obstetrics, her thoughts on internet and pop culture. A lot of people were talkative. Very few were actually fascinating. Tyla was one of those rare people: beautiful and interesting, inside and out. He remembered showing his friends her Hinge photos, still in disbelief that they’d matched.

Before he downloaded Hinge and met Tyla, he had gone through two intense breakups, one after the other. He hadn’t known if he was ready to start dating again, but he did anyway. Only by meeting new people did he realize just how destabilized he felt. He was forced to confront himself: his difficulty expressing his boundaries, his inability to communicate his intentions. In a strange sense, his break from romance was a chance to start anew.

Even during his self-imposed soul search, she had remained in his thoughts. The messages she sent, the videos she posted. He remembered the ones she took from the J train. The sun setting behind the bridge, some song playing in the background. One time, it was his song. His heart had swelled.

When Tyla entered the crowded bar, they hugged. He felt something unusual within himself: steadiness. Weird, he thought. Weird but good.

He seems different, Tyla noticed. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but it was clear Jerome’s break had done him good. As he pointed to the menu and suggested what they might order (she hadn’t forgotten about his gluten allergy), she noticed he was still a little shy. He glanced away whenever he spoke.

They had tried to meet up once before, but he’d gotten a gnarly injury at work. Now, Tyla asked to see his finger. He held it out, and she studied the scar. “I’m back in commission,” he’d texted her. It had been a funny thing to say, but it was also sweet. 

Of course, she’d had her sights set on him from the beginning. She had been disappointed enough by their pause to poke him on social media here and there. Maybe she had herself to thank for being able to see Jerome again. For knowing what she wanted and, in her own way, going after it.

They ordered deviled eggs, bread and butter, and an assortment of cocktails. She told him that she wanted to take him to a few spots tonight, maybe meet up with friends, maybe run into others. He didn’t seem to mind.

Jerome liked observing Tyla. He didn’t mind the idea of going bar to bar, watching her be out in the world. Tyla was one of the warmest people he’d ever met. Now at a different bar, their second location of the night, surrounded by tiki statues and sipping some tropical cocktail, he watched her banter with an acquaintance. She turned back to him with a grin. 

She is so good at being herself, he thought. He smiled at her.

“What?” she asked, laughing. 

He shook his head, deciding to share what he was thinking later — that she had a way of charming other people, turning them from strangers into friends so easily. She’d done that with him, after all. 

He hadn’t set any intentions for the night. Just to be present, to enjoy. But now something in him was sharpening. The fog in his mind was clearing, parting for something that looked like understanding.

Now, as he listened to Tyla talk, he realized: I could listen to her talk forever.

I’m yapping way too much, Tyla noted. But it had been a long time since she felt this comfortable on a date. Her past relationships left her in a state that could be best described as despair. It was the kind that left one hopeless, best prepared for disaster, and nothing else. She could sense her skepticism, driven by that hopelessness, tugging at her as she played pool with Jerome. 

It was easier to choose cynicism. But she did not want to turn bitter and distrusting after those other relationships. What she loved most about herself was her heart, which she was determined to keep open. Those experiences, somewhat ironically, had been helpful. They allowed her to get closer to herself.

He handed her the pool stick. She took a shot. As the ball snapped and knocked around the table, she allowed herself to imagine that darkness rolling out of her body.

She thought about her first kiss with Jerome again, at the park. Can I kiss you? he’d said. No one had ever asked her that before. At the time she was still raw, still susceptible to those patterns she knew she needed to escape. She had thought the question was a bit silly, maybe unnecessary.

Jerome took his shot and won a point. She watched him walk around the table, change his angle.

Tyla realized the question had not been silly. Perhaps she had to get used to the goodness that existed in this world, the goodness that Jerome had shown her.

Jerome pocketed another ball. Two in a row. Tyla’s jaw dropped. He liked impressing her with his pool skills, especially since she was much better than he was. The steadiness he felt within himself was translating to the game, like a beam of focus magnifying what mattered.

He was still hesitant. Both in pool and in life. He missed the shot and handed Tyla the stick. His hesitation, he knew, was simply the ghost of everything he’d ever experienced before.

He had been hurt. He knew it had held him back. Playing games, being withholding — none of that had ever felt right to him. Now he was sure of what did. 

He thought about how time had passed, how things changed so quietly and incrementally, until he found himself at this point. How, during those six months, he witnessed the true power of time. It could present itself as an obstacle, but ultimately, it was a compass. It was meant to be followed, surrendered to.

What’s right for you will find you. He’d heard that statement before. These things would always fall into place, as long as you were patient. Having witnessed this for himself, he felt very wise.

Tyla scored a point. Nearly all of her stripes were pocketed. He still had a few solids left. They sipped their drinks and discussed their next move — where they would go, who they might run into. 

Jerome turned back to the pool table, wondering how long the rest of the game would take. They could always forfeit, finish the last of their drinks, and carry on to the next place. 

Instead, Tyla kissed him. 

He kissed her back. 

The game wasn’t going anywhere. They could always pick back up where they left off.

Upasna Barath is a Brooklyn-based writer and performer. A former Steppenwolf Theatre Literary Fellow, she writes plays that explore identity, humor, and the absurdity of intimacy. She co-wrote and starred in the short film “Little Slut,” and her debut novel, “Comedic Timing,” was released by 831 Stories in January 2025.

Juno was just finishing up at the restaurant, their fingers still smelling of garlic and cilantro, when the notification came in. Opening Hinge and looking through Aissata’s photos, their stomach contracted: Long blond braids, a smile both confident and kind — exactly my type. I can’t believe they sent me a Like. Juno sent one back and walked to their car, an old green van their friends call The Pickle. The night was cool, even for December, but driving home was easy at this hour. The streets were almost empty. 

Should I reach out, or better wait? A red light flashed at a junction, they stepped on the brake. Reaching for their phone, they scrolled through Aissata’s profile again, and something made them frown. “Looking for short-term relationship.” Juno couldn’t help but think back to their last few dates, how avoidant many of them felt. They sighed. The red light was taking forever.

A breathy pop song hummed in a room across town. Pink fairy lights draped across a vanity glowed like seductive eyes, and Aissata was lying on their bed, staring at their phone. 

C’mon, Juno. There was something about this one, about the way they held themselves in their photos that felt like they knew who they were. Plus, they were beautiful. But no reaction to the Like except a lazy Like back, and Aissata wouldn’t be the one doing all the work if the other gave them so little.

I guess they’re not into me. They put their phone down, flipped over onto their belly. They were exhausted, but they didn’t want to go to sleep just yet. Picking up their phone, they opened up the apps again. The fairy lights glowed and glowed.

No point speaking to people when my energy’s so low, Juno thought that winter. The days were short and the nights too dark, and all they wanted after their late shift was to sleep and wake up to spring. No mental space for meeting strangers. And yet, sometimes they thought back to Aissata, even went and took a peek at their photos.

Still so hot. Maybe some other time.

Winter was dreary that year, but Aissata hardly saw it pass — figuring out their next steps took up so much time. They knew they had to save money to be independent. And even if they were still not out to their parents back in Oregon, moving home was the easiest option right then. They bought their plane ticket, terminated the lease. 

It had been five months since that silent match, and now Aissata was about to leave. It didn’t make sense to meet anyone now. But revisiting Juno’s photos one night made a tingling feeling run through them, all the way to their fingertips. “Works evening shifts, into late-night stargazing,” said the profile. No, it didn’t make sense. Aissata’s fingers moved all by themselves. 

“so are we hanging out at midnight?”

Juno couldn’t help but smile. Funny how things come around. May in bloom, light stretching out the days, and in comes a message from just the one. Juno liked how direct it was, how familiar. This time they didn’t hesitate.

“plsss when are you free?”

The next night they clocked out from work and sped home in The Pickle, excited for the midnight date. They showered, put on their favorite shirt — flannel, plaid — then waited on their bed. Aissata had promised to send their address, but no message came. Juno kept on checking their phone. It was a stormy night, suddenly, and through the open window they watched the ash trees sway from side to side. Am I being stood up? It was past midnight, and still no answer. Juno put down the phone. I guess I’m never hearing from that one again. The trees rustled in the wind, their shhhh like a sulky whisper. So much for avoidant dates.

Aissata woke in a sweat. They stared at their screen, their mind hazy, trying to figure out what time it was. 1 a.m. No no no — this can’t be happening. They had only meant to take a short nap before the date, even set an alarm. I must have slept through it. Ugh I just blew my chance. Opening the chat with Juno, they began to type frantically. 

“hi! god i’m so so sorry, I promise this is not an excuse, but I genuinely just …”

Soft morning light streamed in through the window. Juno was surprised by Aissata’s message. They didn’t need to write if they didn’t want to meet up. But then again ... They sat up in bed, looked at the ash trees outside. They were all still then, leaves reflecting the new light. 

C’mon. Only one way to find out.

Parked in front of Aissata’s that night, Juno checked their hair one last time. Some more hairspray, then they were ready. A figure appeared on the swing porch in an ankle-length cardigan. Juno got out of the car and walked up to the porch, heart pounding in their chest. Aissata was even more beautiful in person than in their photos.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

The first hug: For an instant, fingertips rested on flannel. I love that they’re taller than me, Aissata thought. And that wolf cut, and those rings! 

“Come in.”

It was a lot, but Juno liked what they saw: the overflowing bookcase, the collages on the wall, the little prayer rug, the pink lights. Already it felt like the inside of Aissata’s mind, already it felt good to be in it. They talked about their gender journeys, their obsession with “New Girl” (they’d both seen all seasons), their role as the eldest “daughters” of their families. Juno was funny and charming. I feel like myself around them, Aissata thought. Maybe this is more than just a hookup.

Time began to crash, speeding up and slowing down. Before the two knew it — before they could run out of words or kisses — the clocks said 6 a.m. and Aissata had to leave for work.

“I feel like it’s time to talk about …”

Their third evening together in a row. Lying entwined on Aissata’s bed, a Reneé Rapp song playing in the background. Juno looked up, eyebrows raised. 

“Talk about what?”

Aissata sat up, reached for the words. On their first date they had mentioned to Juno that they were planning on moving, but already that night felt like a long time ago. 

“How we feel about me leaving. My flight is in ten days …”

Before they could even finish, Juno buried their face in a pillow and began to cry. It only really hit them then, the déjà vu of it, the cruel sitcom twist.

Why is this happening to me again? Juno explained about their first relationship. How they’d drifted apart after one of them moved away. How they’d sworn to themselves never to do long distance again. 

“People are different when they’re apart,” they said, wiping their eyes with the sleeve of their sweatshirt, not looking at Aissata. “You can’t replace someone’s presence with calls or photos.” 

Aissata nodded, waited for this tide to pass. Then they took Juno’s hand and led them outside onto the swing porch. The night was deep, the sky thick with stars blinking down at them. Looking at Juno, it hit Aissata that they’d never felt so safe to love. I’m not letting this feeling go. 

“You know, my move isn’t forever,” they said, trying to sound reassuring. “I’m just going for the summer, maybe a little longer. After that I’m free. We could figure something out then — together.” 

Juno looked up, surprised, but Aissata’s eyes left no doubt they meant it. They had a way of making the difficult seem easy, of seeing beyond fear. For a moment they both sat in silence, their eyes drawn up into the night. The stars looked like they were glued into place, but Juno knew they were moving all the time, forever rearranging themselves. Maybe we can’t know how things will turn out, they suddenly thought. Maybe this is too good to let go. 

Their hands found each other, and together they left the porch, back to the sanctuary of Aissata’s room. It occurred to them both that soon it would be time to leave this place behind, to move everything into boxes and tape them shut — the books, the prayer rug, even the fairy lights. But in that moment, everything was still how it needed to be. Two people in a luminous room, slowly turning toward each other.

Editor’s Note: After finding their way back to one another, Aissata and Juno got married in March 2025.

Tomasz Jedrowski is the author of “Swimming in the Dark,” a queer love story set in 1980s Communist Poland. The novel was selected as Book of the Year by The Guardian and NPR, and was picked by Dua Lipa for her monthly book club, Service95. It’s currently being adapted as a play and as an opera.

January. The West Village. Midnight, at least. There’s a chill in the air, but I don’t feel it, wrapped as I am in the electric buzz of the bar. Tonight, anything is possible. Tonight, New York spreads her arms wide and cracks open a propitious smile. Tonight, miracles could happen. My friends and I bar hop, leaping from place to place. Carefree club kids and this is our playground. The night is an outline. Shape and color, sound and sweat, just passing through. Fleeting glimpses of a thousand lives wash over one another. Something pulls me toward the bar. Thirst or the riptide of fortune? Who’s to say? Out of the blur, a smile splits the haze. A pair of eyes linger just a hair too long. I linger too. Look away. Back. Smile. Away again. I don’t remember walking over, but now he’s in front of me. Say something. Say anything. “Hi.” It’s all I can muster. It slides into the ocean of sound we swim in. “Hi.” He says it back and I am caught. But now another voice, close in my ear. “We gotta go.” Our friends have left, no time to loiter. I’m pulled out, down the street to drags and dives as we swoop through the swirling mist of a winter night fast becoming a frosted morning. And I wonder: What in the world just happened?

Stop looking at him. But how can I turn away? Beauty itself, bobbing just out of reach. Stop it, he’ll see you. But I want to be seen. By him, at least. An extra second passes and his eye catches mine. Soft features seem to dance as the hot lamps of the disco lights cast vivid jewels across the sloping angles of his face. He looks to the bar then back at me. I can’t stop staring, nor do I want to. I want to drink it all in. But then he is moving toward me, the bodies around him twirling out like a school of frightened fish, silver flashing from hands and throats. “Hi,” he says and it’s so casual, so nonchalant that I know this moment must be significant. “Hi,” I say in return, flicking through the thousand questions that leap half-formed in my mind. But now a friend appears at his shoulder and before I can ask his name, he’s spinning back into the crowd. Away from me. I scan the room for a final look at him, as a single question escapes from the milieu and lodges itself somewhere in my chest: Who on earth was that?

Time passes, as it tends to do. The world changes and so do I. I date. I dream. I stop dating, stop dreaming. Take some time. Take a breath. In … and out … I realize that love, in my 20s, was a bit of a wash. Learning how to love, learning how to love myself, mistakes on all sides. Sometimes it felt like me and the guys I was with were not only on different pages but in totally different books. Each of my five past relationships taught me a heap of lessons but I needed a break. Am I ready yet? It’s been two years since I last went on a date. Four, since I glimpsed a face that propelled me across a crowded bar toward … a stranger? We didn’t even exchange names. But here I am, almost half a decade later, and I feel like I’m ready to dip my toe back into the cool waters of the New York City dating pool. I’m centered, grounded. I feel like myself again. I’m thriving. I take a deep breath. And I’m ready to dive in.

When do you accept that a moment, however special, was just a moment? I thought about that moment often in the months after, replaying it in my mind and wondering: What if? What if he’d stayed? What if I’d gotten his name? His number? What then? At times, I question if it even happened. If he felt the same spark I did. But the memory fades and becomes exactly that: a single memory in the long history of a life lived. Dating in LA is … well, it’s like most things in LA: a ton of auditions, a few callbacks, but still no starring role. It’s felt like people want the “boyfriend experience” but haven’t been willing to put in the work. I’ve been hurt and the walls I’ve built to protect myself have started to close me off. Stop expending so much energy on this. I decide to pull back a little, keep the faith but leave it up to fate. I’m visiting New York for Memorial Day weekend and on a whim, I open Hinge. I tap through a few profiles not expecting too much, when out of nowhere an unmistakable smile leaps from my phone screen. I’ve seen this man before …

“Hi.” It’s as good an opener as any. It worked before. But this time I get a name and when we match, I can even ask a follow-up question. “Do I know you from somewhere?” It can’t be. But it is. I know it and he knows it too. “I was thinking the same thing,” comes his reply. We start chatting back and forth. I feel this immediate connection and I think he feels it too. He is so genuine and open. He doesn’t shy away from telling me who he is, what he’s looking for, how that split second in the bar echoed in his mind just like it did in mine. I’m overcome by the desire to know all I can about him.

I scroll through his profile and confirm my suspicions. It’s Tony! Not that I knew he was Tony before, but now I do and here he is, beaming up at me. I stare at his perfect smile, read his adorable answers, and begin to realize that my initial attraction to him all those years ago wasn’t just a fluke. This guy is special. And we’ve found each other again. We chat a little and waste no time. From the second I see him slide into the restaurant the very next day, sleek and playful, I’m smitten. He has this megawatt smile that completely takes me aback and back to that half-forgotten night. It’s surreal. Time seems to collapse between now and that moment all those years ago. What strikes me is that, despite his magnetism, he seems so grounded, so fixed in the here and now. He is almost singularly focused on getting to know me. And so, over dinner, that’s exactly what he does.

When I walk into the restaurant and see Sam waiting for me, my heart skips a beat. The part of me that suggested I was ready to date again sings, I told ya so! Our shared memory was not just some fever dream. That spark, that moment in the bar, was real, and by some technological miracle, that spark has returned. Over dinner we breathe life into the ember, and it becomes a flame. There is so much to know about him. I want to know it all. We have so much in common, in so many ways. I see myself reflected back at me and for maybe the first time, I think I like what I see. He is effervescent, bursting with a current of energy that makes me want to grab hold of life. And at the same time, there’s this realness to him, a sense of a truly genuine guy who is present and interesting and interested. The date ends too soon. We agree on a second date while Sam is still in town. One of his friends is throwing a magazine launch party in Brooklyn. Very Samantha Jones. We meet for dinner again before the party and he tells me about his love of horror movies. I confess to my undying love for “Scream 2,” and we swap takes and recommendations back and forth. We float out of the restaurant and into the party, totally fixed on each other.

This guy is the best plus-one ever. So engaged, so full of life, so attentive. Walking around this party with him on my arm, I begin to think that maybe I could get used to this. Friends and strangers are as impressed as I am by his ability to click with almost anyone. I am more taken by the man I am getting to know. As we waltz around the room chatting and laughing, we learn everything we can about each other. I try not to think about the fact that I am leaving in the morning. I try not to think about the fact that I live a six-hour flight away. I try not to think about the fact that I’ve never had a serious relationship before, but suddenly, with Tony, it’s starting to feel possible. Right now, all we have is tonight. Anything that comes after would be a bonus. Right now, we are here. Hand in hand, whirling through the thick current of night and into a sunny May morning. Hand in hand, we walk to get food — breakfast sandwiches as big as your head — and stutter our tentative goodbyes. “See you soon,” Tony says to me. And I hope he means it.

I feel seen. Listened to in a way I don’t think I’ve felt before. That connection I felt when we met continues to deepen despite the fact that we haven’t been able to see each other again yet. I’m kinda intimidated by the strength of my own emotion. It’s a strange combination of wanting to explore where this feeling goes and the fear of starting something serious again. Am I getting in the way of my own happiness? The thought rolls around in my head, uninvited and unwilling to leave. We’ve only met three times and one of those was over four years ago. Can I really be feeling this way about Sam already? But I am. It’s real and I can’t deny it. Sam is amazing and is so open and clear with me. But I still have questions. Ones I’m too afraid to ask. The fear fills in the blanks for me. It dredges up old experiences and makes me question whether Sam is on the same page. I’ve done this all before. The feeling of falling then coming up short when the fit doesn’t feel quite right. I want to reach through my phone screen, hold his face in both my hands and ask him, Is this as real for you as it is for me?

Tony has this stupid hat in his closet. It’s shaped like a goose. And I couldn’t love it more. He says it was for some costume party but he never ended up wearing it. We’ve been bonding over movies lately, so we put a bunch of our faves and stuff from our “To Watch” lists in the hat. Whenever we’re bored, we pull a movie from the hat and watch it together on a call. It’s been so incredible to get to know Tony, I am learning so much about him. About his childhood down in Virginia, his time touring as a musical theater performer. About how gentle and kind and thoughtful he is. This guy is amazing. But usually when people get into long-distance relationships, they’ve spent at least some time together first, right? I’ve never really done this before, never got to the stage where it feels so important. Does he even wanna get into something so difficult? So expensive? So … logistically complex? I know my walls are up. I’m projecting old fears onto Tony but I wish I could march around to his house, look him in the eye and ask, Do you like me as much as I like you?

Just before the Fourth of July weekend, we hop on a video call. It’s easy, comfortable. Although we’ve both been busy, juggling work, packed social lives, and being dads to our two very different dogs, when we find time to chat, it’s like no time has passed at all. Talking to Sam is the easiest thing in the world. He sees me in a way I’ve always wanted to be seen. Listens in a way I’ve always wanted to be listened to. We chat about our plans for the weekend, and I realize we both have a few days open. Sometimes in life, when you really want something, when something seems this good, you’ve got to take a risk. “Book a flight,” I say. “Come see me this weekend.”

I can’t believe he just asked me that. Of course I’m gonna go. You gotta answer when opportunity knocks like that. We end the call, and I book the next flight out to NYC. When I land, we drop off my stuff at Tony’s place and head straight out to Coney Island. It’s a magical day. We grab watermelon margaritas on the pier, and it starts to sink in that he’s right here beside me. We run around the theme park like little kids, hopping on rides, challenging each other to one-on-one laser tag. We laugh so much it feels like we’re gonna burst open. We take the train back to Tony’s place, wrapped in the day, cheeks flushed from the excitement. Fireworks doesn’t even cover it.

No one told me that falling in love would be this easy or this complicated. We bonded so much over the things we have in common that I worry we’ve ignored our differences. I was raised by Black Southern Baptists in Virginia, which doesn’t exactly map onto Sam’s experience as a white Jewish guy from the New York suburbs. Even though we came from different places, I don’t feel a gap between us. It’s like we’re looking in the same direction, just from different starting points. Where it matters most — the things we want, the things we value — we’re right beside each other. We both want something real. Something sturdy enough to last through the hard days and soft enough to feel like home. Maybe that’s the real miracle: finding someone whose heart beats at a rhythm that sounds like your own.

I feel this sense that, somehow, even with all the different roads we took to get here, we’re meeting at the same destination. It’s not just chemistry or attraction anymore. It’s something steadier, something that feels like a real foundation. And with Tony flying out to LA soon for two whole weeks, the energy between us is pure excitement and relief. Relief that, for once, timing and luck and life are all on our side. That soon, it won’t be screens and airports between us, just air.

When I step through Arrivals I see Sam waiting for me. The warm summer day buzzes with anticipation. Sam’s short film has been accepted into a film festival in Hollywood. I meet his sister and her boyfriend and it’s just as easy as everything else with Sam seems to be. We get our picture taken on the red carpet and it feels like we’re the ones in a movie. The lights go down as Sam’s film starts and I hold his hand as I get a proper glimpse of the artist I’m falling for.

Tony is the perfect person to have on my arm for this moment. The red carpet, the premiere. I am so glad this has all fallen into place. But I jokingly remind Tony that my life isn’t always this glamorous, this picture perfect. He gives me a look and a squeeze of the hand that lets me know that even without all this, he’d be here. Then suddenly someone is calling my name and our film has won its category. I’m overcome with emotion and I just keep thinking: Is all this real?

When he asks me the first time, I don’t have an answer. I know what I feel, but I need to be sure.

When I ask him, he says he needs some time. I give him time, but I don’t know how much I have. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to ask him again.

I take some time. Get centered. Ground myself in the knowledge of what I feel in my heart. I take a deep breath. And I’m ready to dive in. So, this time, I ask him, “Will you be my boyfriend?”

I’m flying to New York to stay with my boyfriend. It’s a simple sentence. I try it out a few times. Rolling it around my mouth. I say it out loud. To a few close friends and family. A simple sentence that holds so much. Over the past few weeks, it feels like we’ve broken through some sort of barrier. It’s like saying “I love you” made us realize we had to say all the other stuff too. We get real with each other. If we’re going to make this work, we have to communicate. Separated by an entire country, all we have when we’re apart is our words, so we gotta use them. I’m learning how to open up. Tony is patient and endlessly kind. We both have insecurities, doubts that seep into the present. If we keep these parts of ourselves hidden, we are standing in the way of the future we’re trying to build.

Having Sam stay for a whole month feels like winning the lottery. Here’s this wonderful guy, who I’ve been separated from for so long. And I get to wake up and see his face every day. For four whole weeks. We make the most of every second we have together. Whether it’s a rainy day trip to Woodbury Commons to pick out new outfits, or a bar crawl with our friends through Hamilton Heights, or a lazy Sunday morning snuggled up with our dogs, we know that every moment counts. I meet Sam’s parents and I get a peek at the wonderful recipe that created the man I love. After months of to-ing and fro-ing from coast to coast, carving out time for video calls and long-distance date nights, we finally get to slow down. We relax into a new and welcome domesticity. Wandering through my neighborhood discovering new favorites and old loves. Grocery shopping and cooking each other our favorite meals. Our dogs snuggle up together on the couch. One night we make a pilgrimage to the bar where we met, only this time we are together in the throbbing crowd and when the night ends we walk out hand in hand into cool fall air.

I don’t believe in “lost time.” When we first laid eyes on each other in that hazy bar, neither of us were ready for what we have now. We met each other exactly when we needed to. Tony has taught me to open up and for the first time, I truly know that I’m worthy of the love he shows me. I used to think I needed to change in order to find love, but Tony never allows me to forget that I’m already enough. We throw a beautiful 15-person dinner followed by karaoke for Tony’s birthday. Surrounded by family and friends, celebrating him and each other, the moment feels like a really important milestone.

We never go for more than three weeks without seeing each other. And we never leave each other’s cities without knowing when the next time will be. It feels safe, soft, and solid. I don’t think I understood what real love looked and felt like, until now. I never felt confident enough, strong enough. But now I see the world in a different way. I hear things in a different way when Sam says them. When we met, it felt like we were both so ready. We hit the ground running. And we’ve been scampering through life together ever since. For the first time in my life, when Sam tells me I’m beautiful, I believe it. We are helping each other write a new story. And this is just the prologue.

William Rayfet Hunter is a British-Jamaican author, essayist, and poet from the North West of England. They write about love, power, and the messy parts of being alive. Their debut novel, “Sunstruck,” was published in May 2025.

When Ola showed up at the front door of Lia’s apartment in London, she immediately thought that he was dressed a little too casually. It was an unorthodox first date, him coming over a day after they matched on Hinge, but it was still a first date, after all. I have my work cut out for me, Lia thought to herself. 

But when she invited him over, Lia had told him to “come as you are.” Ola was tall and gregarious; he’d told her that he played on an intramural football team. Maybe those football-cuffed jogging bottoms and trainers were what he’d worn the whole day? 

Lia’s hair was usually in long box braids, but she hadn’t gotten it done in a while. That day, uncharacteristically, she threw on a wig. I want to look casual, but not too casual, cuz I’m at home — what’s the outfit for that? Lia hadn’t been in the apartment for more than a month, but she tidied up quickly to host that night.

A cosign from a mutual friend was enough to get her past the ick of seeing that one video of Ola dancing on social media. This was going to be her last attempt at dating — Lia decided that well before they matched. Men in London are unserious! Remember the man who surprised her with the reveal that his ex was pregnant with his child … absolutely not! Lia was feeling a little bit eager and a little bit whatevs when she told Ola to come over to her place and that she’d cook for him.

Lia’s building was nice. There were cute local shops outside, and a concierge downstairs. Ola felt like that Quinta Brunson meme: She got money! Was it OK that he didn’t? 

When they video chatted the night before, he wanted to be upfront about having been laid off recently, and he was still looking for work. Ola wasn’t certain he’d measure up. He only realized after they hung up that he had accidentally talked at Lia for an hour. He knows he’s a bit of a yapper. But he wanted her to know that he was ambitious and driven, that he wasn’t out of a job for lack of trying. 

Ola approached Lia’s apartment door. He’d taken a break from dating as he grieved his mother, who died in 2017. When he was ready to start looking for “the one” again, he had trouble finding his footing. His openness was perceived as being too eager. Before he responded to Lia on Hinge, he was going to give dating one last chance. Ola didn’t have a “type,” but Lia’s profile made her seem so striking: Black, beautiful, inquisitive, confident.

Ola was in her apartment and a plantain was on the stove. Lia had big-upped her cooking when they were on the phone, but she actually didn’t love cooking for other people. She was nervous, and she could see that Ola was nervous, which made her more nervous.

Ola was talking at her again, like he had when they video chatted. It didn’t bother her at all. Usually, she was the one oversharing as someone else played it cool. The man in her kitchen was so open: his mother died a few years ago, and the way he talked about missing her was so vulnerable. OK, so he wasn’t making six figures, and didn’t have a job, and he couldn’t drive — split-the-check TikTok would have a field day here. But it didn’t matter to Lia. She still wanted to give him a chance! She was so at ease getting to know Ola that the plantain started to char on the stove.

Ola could hear himself talking again, going off on tangents as he’s wont to do. But Lia was such a patient listener. He could tell that she was embarrassed about the burnt plantain, but he was happy to eat her food. He looked down at his joggers. He’d picked them because he wanted to show Lia the real him. He felt totally seen by her ... and the food wasn’t so burnt. They sat on Lia’s uncomfortable sofa, and she turned on “Brooklyn Nine-Nine.” Ola looked at her and said he didn’t want to see anyone else, that he only wanted to get to know her. She nodded and said the same. They deleted Hinge then and there.

When Ola left, Lia felt such a buzz of energy. She wanted to call someone — not an “I just met the one!” call but a “So there’s this guy that I think is very fun ...” call. Her grandparents were the first to pick up the phone. She told them about the Nigerian man she was interested in. Her grandfather said he spoke a bit of Yoruba … Lia took it as a good sign. 

Not long after that date, Lia accompanied Ola to his friend’s flat for a party. It was there that they made their relationship official. In the car home, Lia felt giddy. They were side by side in her bathroom, each brushing their teeth, when she said she loved him. He said it back that night, but the next morning it felt even more real, not just a post-party buzz. Ola told her he loved her, so casually, so naturally, before he laced up his trainers and headed out for a run in the park.

Ola said he was driven, and Lia believed him. A personality quiz at her job said she was a “developer,” that she was uniquely skilled at helping realize potential. She reviewed his resume and helped him practice interviewing. After months applying for jobs, Ola’s confidence was gone. She revved him up with renewed energy. He said he’s ambitious, so I’m going to hold him to that, she thought. If he could just get to an interview, Lia knew he was so talented that he could have any job he wanted.

Ola didn’t mind the extra set of eyes. He could get advice from his friends, but he’d never found himself in a partnership quite like this one. Lia had grown up upper-middle class, and gone to private school. She was only working part-time, but she was very ambitious! Her grandfather was a diplomat and her parents owned property. Ola appreciated how willing she was to get into the trenches with him. He’d felt a little insecure about his ADHD — it made keeping track of where he’d applied and when he was set to interview more difficult. That stuff was easy for Lia, and she was happy to help out. Ola had been a little down on himself while looking for work, his usual joviality could run cold in the face of all that uncertainty. Lia lightened every mood.

Was it because Lia and her sisters had been the only Black girls in their mostly-white secondary school, or was it because she barely knew how to two-step that she always felt self-conscious? Like she’d always be perceived as somewhat serious? Ola’s friends were dynamic and interesting, and he had so much personality on the dance floor. Even when she was feeling shy, one of the things she loved about Ola was how he always brought her in — into the joke, into the conversation, into his level-headed certainty.

When he finally landed a job, months into their relationship, they went on a proper date. Lia wore a leopard-print dress and treated him to their dinner at a tapas restaurant. Ola felt weird, like he was coming off too reserved. The intensity of the last few months of his life had given him whiplash: single, dating, job searching, employed, suddenly in a very serious relationship. He needed to come up for air. He was yapping again, trying to introduce the idea gently … should they take a bit of a step back? This is already the longest relationship I’ve ever been in, he thought to himself.

You’ve wasted my time, Lia thought. She was irate. Had she really buoyed his confidence all those months only for him to get a job and decide he wanted something different? On some level, perhaps, Lia could only see her investment and what she’d given up to choose Ola’s love. If you want to go on a break, that’s a breakup, and we’re done, she thought. Or we’ll try and work through what the issues are. She knew she had a tendency to come in hot-headed and guns blazing, but she was furious.

Lia had imagined a romance with someone more established, more mature. Her last relationship had been with a white English guy, who checked some of those boxes. And yet, even after four years together, Lia had never felt totally relaxed around his family. He still didn’t get that she’d wash bundles in the sink or how much she loved her lotions.

Ola was the center of attention in every room, he was so good at drawing people near him. He wasn’t great at budgeting but set aside money from his paycheck to send home to his dad, whom Lia adored. Ola regularly took three trains to come over to her apartment. Of course he loved her. She saw past Ola’s imperfect delivery — he was scared. They both wanted to be together forever. He thought a brief pause — just to regain perspective! — could get them there.

I knew that I didn’t know how to explain it, Ola thought. He didn’t want to break up. He regretted bringing it up at all. He loved Lia, and their relationship. But he didn’t want money to hold them back. It bothered him that they couldn’t afford a vacation, or a fancy dinner, or a big party for Lia’s birthday. There was still a voice in his head saying that he wasn’t where he should be, and he wanted the best for Lia and to be the best for Lia.

But where should his life be? Money wasn’t what gave Ola’s life purpose. He grew up in government housing and had only just gotten a job again after a period of unemployment. I have a lot of love to give to people because of my mother, because of the way she loved others, he thought. He loves community and family — what his mother loved, too. He couldn’t give Lia fancy gifts but he could give her his time and his attention.

Lia saw it Ola’s way: what actually mattered to her was spending time with the people she loved. That meant having Ola come over to her flat, curling up together on that uncomfortable sofa, watching TV, and trying not to burn their dinner. Navigating Ola’s job search made her get even closer to him. Their fight about what constitutes a “break” and what constitutes a “breakup” helped her communicate in ways she never had before. With Ola, she could be open.

Now, on Wednesday nights, Lia works late on a side hustle. Ola is almost ready for bed when she gets home, but he still meets her at the bus stop to escort her for the three-minute walk from the bus to their front door. He’s still wearing joggers, sometimes even slippers. Five years into their relationship, Lia doesn’t mind at all.

Hunter Harris is a writer based in Brooklyn. Her writing has appeared in New York Magazine, The New York Times, GQ, and other publications. She crashed a party with Usher and shadowed the cast of HBO’s “Succession.” She writes Hung Up, a newsletter about movies and TV with over 175,000 readers, and co-hosts the Wondery podcast “Lemme Say This.” Previously, she was a staff writer at New York Magazine and wrote on HBO’s “Gossip Girl.”

Caitlin takes her time with the outfit. After several jacket/purse/boot combinations, she lands on white bomber/tan crossbody/brown cowboy, respectively. She sighs with relief — the hardest part is over. Boots and all, she lays on top of her duvet, and waits.

Any minute, Tian will text her saying he’s left the house, and she will leave at exactly that moment. Everything will go according to plan. 

She taps her phone, sees the background photo of her two cats. Opens Hinge. Looks at his photos again. Yes, good. Skater vibes, fashion sense. Trilingual! Well-traveled. Maybe even better traveled than she is. Her type. 

She already knows she likes him. They’ve been talking for two weeks — he’s the last one she texts before she goes to sleep and the first one she texts when she wakes up. One would think that knowing each other would make the first date easier, would ease the nerves. But one would be wrong.

She knows some of her anxiety stems from other circumstances, ones out of Tian’s control. Her job, for starters. She’d expected London’s fashion industry to be artistic and glamorous, but it’s just late nights and early mornings, and a schedule that’s to blame for why she and Tian haven’t met yet. He’s been busy too, and as a result, they’ve scheduled this date like a meeting, holding time on their calendars weeks in advance. Is this normal, or does it mean they’re already bad at prioritizing each other, treating their relationship like a job? Is the whole thing over before it’s begun?

Then, of course, there’s the trip she has scheduled next week. She’s supposed to go to Mexico City, and it’s just like any other vacation … except it’s with her ex. She’s not involved with said ex anymore (aside from the cats they co-parent together) but Caitlin doesn’t want to explain all that to Tian at this stage. It would imply she comes with baggage — packed-to-the-brim, past-the-weight-limit baggage — and Tian seems like someone who could travel the whole world with only a carry-on. She doesn’t want to show him that she overpacks just yet. 

She’s thought about canceling the trip, but each time she has the urge, she stops herself. That would be absurd; she hasn’t even met Tian in person. Canceling a vacation to a city she can’t wait to see on the chance that she’ll have chemistry with a guy from an app?

Calm down, she tells herself. Relax.

The phone vibrates. She sits up. Reads the text as she’s walking out the door.

“i’m almost here” 

“sorry forgot to text when i was leaving lol”

Shit.

She runs.

Tian leans against the wall of Euston Station, one leg bent. He lifts the bent leg up, shimmies his shoulders down the wall a bit more.

When will Caitlin get here? He wants to be in the right position when she comes up that escalator. He switches legs, puts his sunglasses on, tries another pose. Reverts back to the first one again.

He should have texted her right when he left the house. Admittedly he makes mistakes like this often, but it’s never a reflection on whether or not he cares about a person; his mum always asks him to text her when he lands, and he’s never once texted her when he lands.

And this girl isn’t just any girl. This is the girl he’s been video chatting with because her schedule was as jam-packed as his was, and he liked her too much to wait until they could hang out IRL. The girl who knows he’s a history nerd and still wants to talk to him. The girl who messaged him first on Hinge, asking what animal he would be.

“people describe me as a street cat,” he replied. “you?” 

“omg same,” she said. “as mum to two cats i guess it makes sense”

“got room for one more?” he asked.

She took a beat to reply, then said exactly what he hoped she would, “i do x”

The conversation was more honest than it seemed — Tian really does embody a street cat, bouncing from city to city, his gut deciding where to go next. Impulsivity has always been part of his charm, but recently he’s been longing for stability with someone else, a consistent companion. It’s a normal thing to want, but the desire conflicts with everything he knows about himself. Is a street cat even cut out to settle down? 

Regardless, he really likes Caitlin. She seems like someone who might be open to an adventure, but also craves structure and admires ambition. He wants to show her that side of himself, explain his vision for a travel business, but then he’d have to tell her about his plan to move abroad, and that he likely won’t live in the U.K. for more than a year. He could always ask her to move with him, but that would be crazy. 

She’d never say yes.

But what if … she did?

Caitlin wipes sweat off her brow. It’s an especially cold October day, and her jacket is the kind that traps heat the second you step onto the Tube — too wrapped up in nerves to take it off, she’s been roasting the entire 40-minute ride. The train pulls into the station and she sprints onto the platform, panting and fanning her face as she runs. She makes it to the extra-long escalator knowing he’ll be waiting at the top, grateful for the extra few seconds to recover.

I’m drenched, she panics. He’s going to think I’m a mess.

Ooh, she’s cute, he thinks. And so put together too. 

The date is less of a date and more of an odyssey, an epic saga with different stories unfolding in every scene. There’s the cafe where they swap tales of near-death experiences, where he only orders a coffee because he’s so nervous; how could a person eat at a time like this? There’s the hour walk where Caitlin tells him she dreams of quitting her job someday. There’s the Tate Modern where she tells him she’s never seen “Before Sunrise,” and he gasps so loud that they get shushed by a museum guard.

When they head outside again it’s night; somehow time has kept moving even as they’ve stood still. They walk along the Thames, and though it’s fall, the stars gleam with the zeal of a summer sky.

They take a break, sitting on a bench under a lamppost. Tian can feel himself about to drop a historical anecdote, but a voice in his head tells him to rein it in. He considers it, but no — that’s who he is. Better she know him through and through, his authentic self, then assess if she can stand the heat.

“Do you want to know a fun fact about this specific lamppost?”

“Do I ever.”

“People call this a ‘dolphin’ lamp, but it’s actually a sturgeon.”

“Wow,” Caitlin says. Is this her dry humor, or does she actually like his trivia? Is she feigning interest, or does she actually like … him?

Should he kiss her? He wants to kiss her.

When will he kiss me? she thinks. I don’t mind the lamp stuff, but come ON.

Now he’s hanging off the post like Gene Kelly, and as if reading her mind, he swings toward her. Their lips touch, then both pull back, pleased with the effortlessness of what will hopefully be the first of many.

She likes him. Really likes him. Maybe she should cancel her trip after all.

After one date? Don’t be absurd.

What’s even to say he likes her?

He likes her, a lot a lot a lot. It’s fast but he knows. Who cares if it’s only their first date? It’s an endless adventure, a Linklater fantasy come to life. At some point he’ll have to catch the train home, but not yet. Not yet not yet not yet. 

The lack of food catches up to him. They find a tapas spot, grabbing a welcoming table with red pillows. Tian orders in Spanish, then hears the waiter say “tá bom” and switches to Portuguese.

Espero que isso me faça parecer legal, he thinks. I hope this makes me look cool.

God he looks cool, Caitlin thinks. And he doesn’t even know it.

Casually speaking multiple languages? Is this waiter a paid actor, or is Tian just that good? Being around him makes her feel like a springy and spontaneous version of herself — an unmoored Caitlin filled with creative chaos, reaching all of her potential yet soaring higher still. 

After three hours, they leave the restaurant, searching for excuses not to call it a night. They walk to a Tesco, buy canned mojitos. Rain starts falling, and they take cover on the National Portrait Gallery steps, where they kiss again. 

“Come back to mine?” she asks. 

“I have to catch the train,” he says.

She can tell he’s just trying to be respectful, as if he’d decided beforehand that he wouldn’t try to go home with her. She understands that — she doesn’t want to ruin this either. But maybe if she asks again …

“We can watch ‘Before Sunrise,’” she says. 

The magic words.

“Deal.”

The next morning, Tian leaves in the afternoon. He expects not to hear from her much while she’s in CDMX, but they talk constantly. Listening to her fawn over the city makes him imagine traveling with her, and he can’t get the idea out of his head. 

They have their second date the day she returns, and he says “I love you” in front of a Jollibee at Leicester Square. The location could have been more romantic, yes. They’ve only known each other a month, also yes. But she says it back, so maybe everything is just right.

They bask in the reciprocity for a moment, but then he can’t help himself.

“Would you ever move?” he asks. “To Asia, for a year or so? With me?”

She doesn’t recoil, but thinks for a moment.

“What about my job?” 

“You hate your job,” he says.

“True,” she laughs. “But what about my cats?”

“Bring them! More the merrier.”

“I can’t,” she says, her voice suddenly quiet. “I co-parent them.”

He cocks his head. This is new information.

“With who?” he asks.

Caitlin looks down, avoiding his gaze.

“My ex.”

Tian tries to make sense of the pang in his gut. He’s hurt, but hurt by what? It’s not that her ex is still in the picture. No. He trusts her. Maybe it’s the fact that he, a street cat, is being constrained — and by house cats, no less. 

Ordinarily he’d run away right now, but he feels compelled to lean toward her. Is this what it feels like to be tethered to something? To someone? 

“Can I meet them?” he asks.

“My cats or my ex?”

He swallows hard, pushing through his resistance.

“How about all three?”

The next six months are a blur, mostly rearranging plans so they can see each other. During Fashion Week, she works more than 80 hours while Tian watches her cats. Whenever she gets a second to daydream with him, the two of them talk about his business, the potential to build something together. She sees it: Their future.

She does want to move. And she does want to quit her job. But wanting and doing are different things. She’s afraid of the hard conversation with her manager. She’s afraid of leaving her cats with her ex for a year (think of the children!). And though all of this is absolutely true, maybe it’s not the whole truth — maybe she’s also afraid to cut the cords to her existing life and take the leap. Because if they jump, where will they land?

Whatever the reason, she procrastinates. One more month turns into two, turns into six. And finally, Tian asks her if she’s serious.

She takes a deep breath. She wants to travel. She wants to work for herself. Most importantly, she wants to do it with him.

“I’ll talk to my manager tomorrow,” she says. She’s said this before, but this time it’s true.

Their flight to Bangkok leaves at 2 p.m., so he goes to her house at dawn to help her pack. Piles of clothes sit around the room, Caitlin between them, overwhelmed.

“Why do you need heeled boots?” Tian asks. “And three pairs of white trainers?”

“I just do.”

They roll up her shirts and stuff socks into purses, making space however they can. When they’re done they try to shut the bag, but it flops half-open.

“I packed light,” she insists.

“Very,” he replies. 

Together they sit on the suitcase, their weight pushing down on its contents until the zipper slides effortlessly along the seam. 

Caitlin exhales, standing the luggage upright.

“I’m really gonna miss your cats,” Tian says.

“Me too.” She smiles, then grabs his hand. “Let’s go.”

Jen Winston is a writer and bisexual whose work focuses on dating, queerness, and the millennial condition. She is the author of the critically acclaimed book “Greedy: Notes From a Bisexual Who Wants Too Much,” which was named a Lambda Literary Award finalist in 2022.

If you were to ask my wife Debbie the story of how we met, she would tell you a rather charming and romantic story of persistence and pursuit with a woman who didn’t realize she was being persistently pursued until after the fact. It took more than a year, and it was only when she finally emailed me and asked if she could take me out on a “proper date,” that I understood her intentions.

If you were to ask me the story of how my wife and I met, some of the details would be the same, but many would be different, because that’s how love works. I was clueless and then, when I finally got that fateful email, I was so charmed by the phrase “proper date,” that I wrote back and said, “Sure.” In retrospect, I am not at all certain how we managed a successful first date given the brevity of my reply, but here we are.

We met first at a book event I was doing and after, we went to dinner at a midtown steakhouse. I picked the restaurant, and as we walked in, it was loud and crowded. There was live music, and you could barely hear yourself think above the din. I immediately regretted my choice and worried that the evening was going to be a disaster as we shouted across the table at each other. At one point, I spilled water on Debbie, and I wilted inside because any chance of seeming cool vanished, instantly.

But then, and this is where our stories are the same, we had a lovely time, made plans for a second date and, on the street outside the restaurant, before we parted ways, Debbie asked if she could kiss me and I said yes and then we did and it was spectacular.

Nearly seven years later, we write our love story every day as we build and nurture a life together. And that story is stronger because, in the beginning, we had our individual stories and our unique perceptions of every word exchanged, every gesture made, every moment of connection. And still, we were able to navigate the tender anxieties of early romance and hold on to the new relationship, reaching for each other across the bridge between the stories she was telling herself and the stories I was telling myself, the obstacles of time and distance, and the occasional misunderstandings.

That’s what successful dating is — two people finding a way to tell a shared story that can blossom alongside the histories we bring into new relationships, the doubts and fears and hopes and yearnings we carry with us. The five couples featured in No Ordinary Love were all willing to risk diving into the unknown when they matched on Hinge. They had enough hope to believe something promising was on the horizon. They made connections, even as the people in each couple were telling themselves very different stories about their shared experiences. And now, they are writing perfectly imperfect stories together.