It seemed harmless. A few swipes, some conversations, maybe even a real connection. What did I have to lose?
At first, it was exciting, almost addictive. The rush of matching with someone new, the anticipation of waiting for their message, the validation that came with knowing someone found me attractive. I spent hours curating my profile, choosing the perfect pictures, rewriting my bio to be just the right mix of witty and mysterious.
And then the notifications started rolling in.
“You have a new match!”
Each time my phone buzzed, my heart raced. It was like playing a slot machine, except the jackpot wasn’t money, it was attention. I got caught up in it. I’d check the app every free moment, refreshing it constantly, hungry for the next hit of validation. And when I did get a message, I’d analyze it over and over again.
Why did he say “haha” instead of “hahaha” here?
Why did he like my story but not reply to my message?
Was I coming across as too eager? Too distant?
It felt like a never-ending game, except I wasn’t sure what the rules were, or if I was even winning.
Then came the first date. A guy named Aryan*. He was funny over text, charming even. In person, he was… different. He showed up ten minutes late, barely apologetic. His eyes kept flickering between me and his phone, like he was waiting for something or someone more interesting.
Halfway through dinner, he excused himself to the restroom. Instinctively, I checked my phone.
“You have a new match!”
I glanced at his phone, sitting on the table. A part of me wondered if he’d just received the same notification.
That night, I went home feeling strangely empty. The date hadn’t been awful, but something felt off. I tried to shake it off and kept swiping. More matches, more conversations, more good-morning texts that turned into ghost stories by nightfall. It became a cycle.
A brutal, repetitive, exhausting cycle.
I found myself glued to my phone, waiting for messages that never came, obsessing over conversations that should’ve ended days ago. I started measuring my worth in the number of matches, the frequency of texts, and the speed of replies.
And when the silence stretched too long?
That’s when the anxiety kicked in.
Ghosting became a regular occurrence. People would disappear mid-conversation, after days of chatting, even after a few dates. I’d be left staring at a dead chat, wondering what the hell just happened.
Had I said something wrong?
Was I boring?
Was I just another name in an endless lineup of potential partners?
The worst part? It wasn’t just about losing a connection. It was the not knowing. The absence of closure.
The way someone could be in your life one moment and gone the next, without a single word.
I started noticing something strange about myself.
Even on the days I felt drained, I couldn’t stop swiping. It was a reflex. A habit. A desperate search for some form of reassurance.
Then came the tipping point.
I matched with someone who felt different.
We talked for weeks. Our conversations flowed effortlessly, no awkward pauses, no forced small talk. He made me laugh in a way that felt easy, real. We talked about books, childhood memories, the things we were afraid of but never admitted out loud. For the first time in a long time, I felt hopeful.
We made plans to meet. I was nervous, but excited. This felt like something worth exploring.
Then, without warning, he vanished.
No explanation.
No goodbye.
Just silence.
At first, I made excuses.
Maybe he lost his phone.
Maybe he was going through something.
Maybe he’d text back any minute now.
But deep down, I knew.
I stared at my phone for hours, rereading our messages, searching for clues, trying to pinpoint the exact moment it all went wrong.
Had I been too open? Too vulnerable?
Did I scare him off?
Did I mean nothing to him at all?
I felt small. Insignificant. Like I was just another option someone had scrolled past, swiped on, and then discarded.
That night, I deleted the app.
Not in an angry, defiant way.
Not in a dramatic “I’m done with love” kind of way.
But in a quiet, exhausted way. Like finally exhaling after holding my breath for too long. Like realizing I’d been standing in the rain, waiting for a bus that was never going to arrive.
I wanted to say I felt instant relief, but I didn’t. The truth is, I kept reaching for my phone out of habit, my fingers hovering over the empty space where the app used to be. That was the scariest part, not that I had been ghosted, not that I had been disappointed, but that I had become wired to seek validation from something that was never designed to give it.
And so, I sat with myself that night, phone in hand, staring at my reflection on the screen. And I asked the hard questions.
Why did I let strangers determine how I felt about myself?
Why did I need a text back to feel worthy?
Why did someone else's attention feel like proof that I deserved love?
And I answered them, honestly.
Because I was lonely.
Because I wanted to believe in something magical.
Because, deep down, I thought that if enough people wanted me, it would mean I was finally enough.
And in that moment, I knew, I wasn’t just grieving the people who ghosted me. I was grieving the version of myself that thought love had to be earned through perfect selfies, carefully crafted texts, and a profile that made me seem effortless.
I wasn’t effortless.
I was human.
So, I whispered to myself, like a mother to a child, like a friend to a friend:
You are allowed to want love.
You are allowed to feel hurt when it doesn’t come the way you hoped.
But you are not allowed to forget who you are in the process.
You are not just a swipe, a match, or a conversation left on read.
You are not an algorithm’s plaything.
You are not replaceable, forgettable, or just another option in someone’s inbox.
And the right person, the one who actually matters?
They won’t need an app to find you.
But before they do, you need to find yourself first.
Because maybe love isn’t about a swipe, a spark, or a perfect match.
Maybe it’s about knowing your worth before someone else does.
Maybe it’s about being whole before you try to fit into someone else’s world.
And maybe,
Love will find me, not because I swiped right
But because I finally stopped swiping left on myself.
