Oh, Adam, our first date was coffee and laughs, the kind of date that feels like it could've been scripted for a rom-com if the budget was low but the chemistry was high.
He was hot. Not just "cute guy at Starbucks" hot, but actually hot. A little taller than me, lean muscle like a swimmer or a distance runner. Soft brown hair. Big, kind eyes. The kind of guy you think might smell like pine and expensive soap, and then he actually does. His smile had that boy-next-door charm with just enough cockiness to keep you intrigued.
We met at this artsy little café tucked between a yoga studio and a bookstore, and within ten minutes, we were deep into sarcastic banter and swapping embarrassing childhood stories. He teased me for ordering a mocha instead of "real coffee," and I fired back with a jab about his black coffee being a red flag.
He laughed. Like, a real, full-belly, throw-his-head-back laugh. And I was toast.
Second date? Dinner and bowling. I told him ahead of time I was terrible at bowling, and Adam said, "Don't worry, I'll let you win." He didn't.
I threw two gutter balls in a row, nearly dropped the ball on my own foot, and once, just once, sent it ricocheting across the divider into another lane. He howled with laughter and gave me a high five anyway. Not because I scored well. Because I showed up. He was that kind of guy. The sweet, encouraging type who makes even your most embarrassing moments feel cute.
Dinner was at this little Italian place where he ordered for both of us without being obnoxious about it. Just confident enough to be sexy, but thoughtful enough to ask if I had any food allergies. The man knew how to pick a pasta dish. And yes, he looked unfairly good under candlelight.
By the end of the night, I was floating. Butterflies. Blushes. Bold little fantasies.
Which brings us to the third date.
He invited me over for dinner, and I thought, This is it. Third-date magic.
And honestly? It started out perfect. He made mushroom risotto from scratch, gourmet mushroom risotto, not the boxed kind with sad peas. He even followed it up with a fancy dessert that looked straight off the cover of a food magazine. I half expected him to walk out wearing a chef's coat and announce he'd been reviewed by Michelin.
The chemistry? Fire. We laughed, we flirted, we curled up on the couch to watch a The Nightmare Before Christmas. I had never watched it. He was determined to change that. It was his favorite movie. Somewhere between the popcorn and the credits, things heated up. Let's just say he had a particular talent for making a girl very happy. No notes. A+ performance.
So when he invited me upstairs to his loft for a little "after-hours dessert," I was ready. Blissful. Relaxed. Full of risotto and endorphins.
I was fully in, emotionally, physically, hormonally. The only thing left was the grand finale.
And then… he pulled it out.
And I froze.
Because what I saw was… well, nothing.
Not a little. Not just underwhelming. Underwhelming in a way that made me question the very laws of anatomy. Like… am I being punk'd by evolution?
I blinked. I tried not to react. My brain was buffering. Where is it? Did it fall off? Did it go on strike? Is this a prank?
But no, it was real. Or, more accurately… it wasn't.
I panicked.
And when I panic, I improvise.
"I just need to use the bathroom real quick," I said, all breathy and casual, like I wasn't having an internal meltdown.
I walked to the bathroom. Closed the door. Stood there for three seconds. And then went full Mission Impossible.
Shoes, on. Purse, grabbed. I dressed in the hallway like a seasoned escape artist. No bathroom trip, no explanation, just the cleanest dress-and-dash of my life.
I zipped up faster than a toddler caught drawing on the wall.My heels clacked down those stairs like judgment.If I'd had a grappling hook, I would've used it.
I considered leaving a note. Something like:
"Thanks for the risotto. Sorry I vanished. I'm into fully-equipped relationships."
But even I couldn't make that sound nice.
So instead, I ghosted. Out the door. Down the stairs. Into the night like a guilt-ridden ninja.
But here's the part I don't like to admit:
What I did wasn't kind.
I ghosted a man who had done everything right. Until the one thing he couldn't control. And while I still believe chemistry matters, and attraction isn't something you can force… I also know I could've handled it better.
He didn't deserve to be left like that. No note. No explanation. Just silence.
And the truth? I didn't disappear because he wasn't enough.
I disappeared because I didn't know how to deal with my own disappointment without making someone else feel small. I thought I was sparing his feelings. The truth is, I was protecting my pride.And he deserved better than my silence.
Because in that moment, it felt easier to run than to risk hurting him with honesty.
But I did hurt him.
And that's stayed with me.
So if you're reading this, Adam, somewhere out there still wondering what happened after risotto and laughs and the movie you loved, I'm sorry. You deserved more than a disappearing act. You deserved kindness.