Maybe she was the one...

The following story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Or is it? Allegedly.

It was a Saturday, woke up even before the alarm. A first date. I was already in my head about what to wear. Lunch was a heavy affair because I’m on a mission, a holy quest to hit 66 kgs. I’ve got a lot of ground to cover and a lot of food to eat to get there.

The plan was to look good, but not too good. You know, a “I woke up like this” kinda vibe. So I threw on my favorite shorts and a pair of Vans—the most comfortable and budget-friendly shoes on the planet. I had them in every color, a testament to my love for them. My friends, family, and even my barber had roasted me for my devotion to Vans, but I gave them a blind eye until that fateful day. My date, later on, would make a comment about them that would seal their fate forever. It was a sad day.

I had been planning for this date for weeks. I had scoured the internet for conversation starters and “what not to do on a first date” articles. My friends called me crazy, but I was determined to make a good impression. I had watched The Hangover the night before, thinking it would be the perfect icebreaker. I’m a bit of a nerd, I know.

I arrived 30 minutes early, of course, because that’s what a man on a mission does. And then she walked in, fashionably late and ridiculously overdressed. She was a vision in a beautiful dress and heels, while I was there in my shorts and Vans. Oh, the irony.

Being a gentleman is a non-negotiable for me. Some people might call it “simping,” but I call it chivalry. I rushed to her side, pulled out her chair, and helped her with her bag. “Oh, you’re a romantic,” she said, with a sly smile. “I’m a little bit of a disaster,” I replied, “I forgot the flowers in the Uber.” She didn’t believe me, but she didn’t call me out on it either. Phew.

She had this whole carefree attitude at first, but she was low-key judging me the whole time. You could tell by her eyes, they were doing the math. When it was time to order, I got a fish dish. “You’re a fish guy?” she asked. “I’m a man on a mission to hit my weight goal,” I replied. She got the same thing, a girl after my own heart.

The conversation flowed, and we talked about everything from our favorite movies/music to our campus life, my stories were filtered of course. We’ve done crazy stuff. She was a “yapper,” a great talker, but a terrible listener. I tried to convince her to listen to podcasts, but she just wasn’t into it.

“I love this jersey,” she said. I had told her I was a soccer fan and I was wearing a MUFC jersey, best team in the world FYI. “Who do you support?” I asked. “Liverpool,” she replied. A-ha! I thought. I know for a fact no woman chooses to support a team out of thin air. It’s either a dad, a brother, or a boyfriend that got them into it. I tried to convince her to switch to my team, but it was a lost cause. “I skipped a match just to be with you,” I lied. It was an international break. The things you do for love.

After a “lovely” date, we went our separate ways. I was expecting a text, a “I had a good time” or “let’s do this again,” but nothing. She did post some pictures of herself, though. A flex to her friends, I assume, with me excluded.

A few weeks later, we reconnected and started dating for real. We went to karaoke nights and events, and she showed me a world I never knew existed. I was a homebody, but she had a lust for life that was contagious. We started having movie nights at my place or hers. She complained about my rock-hard mattress and I promised to buy a new one, but before I could, she broke up with me.

It was on a random Wednesday, at an ungodly hour, that she texted me. “Things are not working out,” she said. I was so mad. Why do women always do this? Can’t we just talk about it? I saw it in the morning and just replied “ok.” It was all I could muster.

A few months later, I texted hoping she won’t reply. “Do you want to meet up?” I asked. She was a little surprised, but as the saying goes, “the owner of the well doesn’t go queuing for water.” She had a new boyfriend now, and he was “doing the most,” as they say. We met up and had a good time, just like old times.

I’m a big boy now, so I’m not going to lie. I miss her sometimes. Maybe she was the one. But you know what? Life goes on. I used the money I had saved for the new mattress and bought a bike instead. It was one of the best decisions I’ve made this year. I love cycling.

And hopefully, she doesn’t read this.