the guy you never dated

still thinking about that one?

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No one’s safe from the peculiar illness that left me bedridden once. Delusion resistant to antibiotics and common sense. I’d wake up in the morning, and, routinely, with the curtains still shut and the city hibernating, I’d grab my phone to check a guy’s music profile. Our very casual connection had come to an end before it could really flourish into anything, so I developed a perverse need to see what songs he was liking and adding to his playlists. I was on a scavenger hunt — I needed evidence. Evidence of what? That he regrets not pursuing me. That I left a mark. That I mattered. Calling it a ‘failed talking stage’ would’ve been ambitious, since 90% of our conversations were initiated by me and I can’t recall him asking me a single question. But since I’d already assigned him as the one that got away, his playlists became a playground for my conspiracy theories. The pathological morning routine lasted two months before I put my big girl pants on and realized I should probably focus on dating people that like me. Just an idea.

Spare your secondhand embarrassment — you’ve been there, too.

The guy you never dated is folklore. Your mythologized creature. It’s that Hinge match with exquisite taste in a utility jacket who magically secured you two the most sought out reservation in the city. It’s that finance guy who put the vest in uninvested, but his opulent personality justified it. It’s the guy who was such an enigma, getting him to like you felt like a triumph. He once was almost yours — but something went astray. Either his disinterest or unavailability, life’s circumstances with no resolve, or your own hesitation. Now a faint yearning to be named or identified, he’s become a reference point for every new romantic venture. He’s always there, in your periphery, in all his static but chiseled nature. Such little significance, so much real estate in your head. We develop an obsession with the people we never had, but why does their impact far outlive their actual presence? I have three of my own — while the thought of them used to have me falling to my knees at the grocery store, I think each taught me an important lesson that helps me date better and smarter today.

just like the movies

The guy I never dated #1 taught me that a cinematic meet-cute doesn’t have to turn into forever — and that doesn’t make a story any less memorable. He approached me at a rooftop bar in Rome on my last day in the city. Just as I thought I’d seen everything and wandered through every tiny street, he reinvented my idea of a good time: gorgeous, local, with a husky voice — a dream. Word by word, glance by glance, we ventured off into another bar, then a speakeasy, then his place, the night stretching out into dimensions and promises, learning about the world through each other. I thought then, this is exactly what meeting your person feels like. Then came the morning, and truth always surfaces in the daylight: I was in a stranger’s apartment, staring at the ceiling, unsure of how or why I got there in the first place. Reality was imminent, reminding me I still had a suitcase to pack, a flight to board, a desk job to return to. A 12-hour affair, as beautiful as it was, was seeing itself out. But something lingered, and I still reminisce on it with a smile.

my hinge soulmate

The guy I never dated #2 taught me that similarity is not a promise of compatibility. We matched on Hinge. I was a freshly moved Amsterdam ingénue – brand new city, brand new prospects. I had already gone on multiple really enjoyable Hinge dates, but something about this one particularly stood out: fifteen minutes into dinner we were perfectly aligned on music, art, politics, memes, the French New Wave, even niche literature. Our clothing style was eerily similar, too — fans of monochrome and quality fabrics. An iconic 80’s song started playing, which we both pointed out near simultaneously. This is my twin flame, I thought, he’s LITERALLY me. How refreshing is it to meet somebody who geeks out on the same things? But we didn’t happen the way we’d both envisioned. A couple dates in, tiny cracks in the mosaic surfaced: there were fundamental differences in personality, core values, and temperament. We struggled with communication, couldn’t make plans, talked over each other, and discovered some irreconcilable differences that no amount of cultural overlap and affiliation could mend. He was a great person, but the vibes were just catastrophically off. Parting ways was bittersweet but mutual, and we’re good friends.

throwback gone wrong

#3 taught me that digging for love in a past life is not the best idea: sentimental but illusory. He was someone from my adolescence I’d lost touch with, and, by some coincidence, cutting through time and space laws, we reconnected as adults — a story impossible not to romanticize. In my mind, it was the closest thing to fate I’d experienced. When the perfect screenplay falls into your lap, you don’t question it: you take it as the primal truth, sink your teeth in, hold onto it for your dear life as though it’s made of solid gold. Only my love interest was going off-script, and I was deemed an unreliable narrator. Head in the clouds, I failed to consider that we were no longer the same people that once knew each other, and reviving history is unnecessary at best and collateral at worst. For months, I’d circle through stages of acceptance until there was nothing left to mull over. Because I should’ve had him — how could I not? It would’ve made perfect sense. In the end, I learned that old friends aren’t new lovers, and that your future needs you way more than your past does.

But it’s no mystery why it’s the people we never fully had that linger: they represent the unexplored absence we offset with wish fulfillment. There’s a golden liminal space exclusively reserved for what didn’t happen, because, first, the relationships that played out in their entirety provide the calmness of completion, and second, the highs and lows are much harder to romanticize than question marks. We don’t ask ourselves why we never dated those people — that’s irrelevant. Instead, we choose to immortalize fragments of what they represented, and build a gilded shrine in the fantasy. For some of us, there’s almost a longing to keep seeking, deciphering, solving, rather than finding, relishing, enjoying.

In reality, the almost-lovers aren’t any more special, charming, or unique than the people we date; what makes them so special is precisely our failure to have them. Fixation on what didn’t work is a thirst to quench, a mechanism that withstands intention needed to make a connection meaningful. No effort or vulnerability required: thinking about what #1 has been up to or how things should’ve gone with #2 takes hardly any work. “He didn’t want me” is a cozy blanket, while dating those who do is scary territory. The obsession with unfinished stories helped conceal my aversion to authenticity: I didn’t have to be my true and vulnerable self around the guys I never dated, because all of my energy was laser-focused on trying to get them, to possess the unreachable, and, subsequently, to nurse my longing for what couldn’t come true. First their presence, then their absence became a placeholder for any future feelings, for the anticipation itself, a waiting room where I’d feel safe and welcome, and sometimes, if lucky, even close to loved. If I were to line up every guy I never dated in a row and greet them with reverence and empathy, I’d get to the end of the line just to see a shadow lurking: my own unwillingness to show up.

Here’s the thing: just because I’m a romantic doesn’t mean I signed up for all this empty longing. Some pep talk with myself was due. The uncomfortable truth is that we’re just as responsible for our love life as our failed mythological lovers — romance isn’t a force of fate defined by angel numbers, cinematic happenstances, or coincidences we’re helpless against, but a continuous practice. Instead of waiting for the love stories we desire, we can —drumroll, please— create them. Once I traded in my Achilles’ heel of the guys I never dated for a shoe that fits and accepted my agency, dating ceased to be obsessive, boring, or dreadful, and started being fun. Replaying the past is fun and games in theory, but realizing you can use that energy to shape your future instead? Groundbreaking!

leaning into my romanticization, duh

Being on Hinge sharpened my discernment. Most people there know exactly what they want —which is why it’s the only dating app I use— and clarity is contagious. I got eager to find out what it is that I want beyond the allure of the unattainable past. It’s been a breath of fresh air to divert all that retroactive dreaminess onto something tangible, true, and rooted in reality. That is, I no longer look for ‘fate’ or a meet-cute — I seek intention and authenticity. I don’t text for hours, letting my projection get the best of me — I prefer to take things offline and schedule a date. Bonus points if he initiates. I don’t give mutual interests too much importance — I look for values. I follow through on plans instead of overanalyzing texts, punctuation, or playlists. I show up as myself, and ask others to do the same. People reveal themselves to me in the present before I get the chance to adorn their potential with lace and ribbons. Most importantly, I’m not waiting on somebody to prove that they want me — hesitation is too expensive for my happiness. Both on Hinge and IRL, I choose to see what’s in front of me here and now, knowing that the past will never love me as much as my future does.

Discernment doesn’t stop when taking Hinge IRL. I have some guidepost questions I ask myself as the connection evolves: Are they the kind of person I’d want to give my undivided attention to? Does my integrity agree with their integrity? Do they possess the kindness I expect from myself and from the people around me? Do they know who they are and, more importantly, can they show up as themselves? Do I like myself around them? Do they get my jokes? Sure, I had to sacrifice the slightly unhinged version of myself that needed failed romance like an oxygen mask that makes life more interesting once you put it on, but she needed to grow up. She was delaying her own happiness, that girl, with her weird cravings for the fictitious past.

checking if he gets my humor is key actually

At the end of the day, the guys I never dated weren’t part of my story, and trying to keep their names in the margins is no different from unrequited love — a tale in which I’m the author, the narrator, the overthinker, the playlist stalker, and the longing itself. But isn’t it funny how it was never about them and always about… me? There’s valuable lessons to derive from the past, but nostalgia tends to overstay its welcome, and we’ve got vibrant lives to get back to. Let that unfulfilled romantic prophecy remain what it is: lore for your group chat, new mileage on the self-discovery marathon, and an opportunity to meet those who like you, want you, and show you.

If my intentional Hinge journey inspires you to do some of your own, use my link to sign up.

Sponsored mention. All opinions are entirely my own and Club Reticent is not affiliated with any of the other mentioned parties.