My romance with Steven quickly fizzled, but I had gained something just as good. It made me realise that in the endless, exhausting pursuit of love I had closed myself off to other kinds of connection
This autumn is my third anniversary with Steven. In October 2023, we matched on Bumble when I was in his home town of Atlanta for a wedding. We met for dinner downtown and even though we’re from different countries, we discovered a mutual love for the British comedy show Stath Lets Flats. It was a done deal.
But Steven isn’t my partner, he’s my friend. And if we’re being teenage about it, I’d probably brand him one of my best, despite living 4,000 miles away. Over the past three years, we’ve visited each other’s homes, holidayed together and met one another’s friends and family. I’ve even had dinner with his ex-wife, whom I also now consider a friend. Steven and I have all the hallmarks of a perfect relationship. We just don’t fancy each other.
On our date, over tacos in a bustling Mexican restaurant, we chatted easily. He was intelligent, warm, funny and chivalrous – offering to drive me home after discovering, with incredulity, that I’d walked from my accommodation (not the done thing in Atlanta apparently). I was doe-eyed. The perfect man, I thought, as I projected all my hopes and dreams on to him. Looking back, I think it was just because he asked me questions (something I hadn’t encountered much on previous dates). I was choosing to ignore the nagging sense that something was missing romantically.
We hung out again during my four days in Atlanta and, as before, got on famously. As we queued for coffees at a local cafe, I placed my hand on his back almost as a way to test the chemistry and affection between us. He reciprocated, but it felt awkward, even wrong.
When I left Atlanta, we vowed to keep in touch, though secretly I suspected communication would taper off. However, a month and several breezy phone chats later, we’d entered some new relationship zone. If there had been any initial flickers of romance, they were burning out quickly into embers of friendship. At the time, I couldn’t quite understand what this strange connection was, until on one call it became clear.
Steven blithely mentioned another date he’d been on and my kneejerk internal response was acute disappointment. But almost as soon as I felt that familiar sad pang from the ghosts of failed dates in my past, relief washed over me. Steven and I were friends. Just because I’d found someone else who likes Stath Lets Flats, it didn’t mean we were meant to be together. A switch went off, I could relax. The transition from romantic prospects to firm friends was never discussed explicitly, but it didn’t need to be.
Dating apps get a bad rap. The sense of doom that envelops digital dating is now ubiquitous. But my date and subsequent friendship with Steven made me wonder if I’d been looking at the apps all wrong: that in the endless, exhausting pursuit of romantic perfection, I was closing myself off to other kinds of meaningful connections the apps could still offer. Like the platonic kind that could help create the very openness required to meet a partner.
If someone had told me in October 2023 that my next date would result in a long-term, long-distance friendship, I would have cancelled it, reasoning, “I’m not interested in that.” If I had, I would have missed out on one of the greatest friendships of my life. It made me realise I’d been approaching modern dating with a vice-like attachment to outcomes. I’d lost the lightness of the experience, the fun.
Suddenly, I was forced to acknowledge a difficult truth: I might never “meet someone”. The idea devastated me at first and I grieved the loss of an imagined life. But in reminding myself what I’d gained, I gradually embraced a curiously cathartic sensation: acceptance and freedom.
I continued dating, but with the understanding that if there was no romantic connection, maybe something else could emerge. Or maybe not, but suddenly it didn’t matter. It was interesting, I found, just chatting to and learning about new people. Don’t get me wrong, I still wanted a romantic relationship; I just also quite liked the idea that I could live out my days enjoying the company of my friends.
Today, Steven and I are as close mates as ever, unaffected by distance. We see each other twice a year and the rest of the time it’s texts, voice notes and phone calls. And, plot twist, I’m currently in a relationship – with someone I met on an app. Where it might lead (I’m still trying to keep those desired outcomes at bay) and whether it was aided by the change Steven’s friendship sparked, I don’t know.
I do know that I mentally friend-zoned this person initially, but ended up enjoying their company so much that a second date happened, and then a third, until I realised I didn’t want to stop being in their company – and not just as their friend. Luckily, they felt the same.
While I didn’t find love in Atlanta, I’ve gained a friend for life in Steven and a much-needed shift in perspective: dating apps aren’t the devil. The devil was my insistence that they do anything more than facilitate strangers meeting.
