When my best friend Mia first suggested setting me up on a blind date, I reacted exactly the way anyone who had sworn off awkward romantic experiments would. I laughed. Loudly. Dramatically. I rolled my eyes so hard she accused me of risking permanent damage. For weeks, she had been campaigning with relentless enthusiasm, sending me screenshots of his messages, telling me stories about how “respectful” and “emotionally intelligent” he was, and insisting that this time would be different. According to her, Eric was polite, funny, ambitious, and thoughtful. He held doors. He remembered birthdays. He volunteered.

He supposedly cried during Pixar movies. To her, he was the full package wrapped in human form. To me, he was another unknown variable I had no interest in testing. Blind dates had never gone well for me. They always felt like job interviews disguised as dinners, where both parties tried too hard to impress and not nearly enough to be authentic. I preferred organic connections, friendships that slowly evolved, moments that felt natural rather than arranged. But Mia was persistent in a way that bordered on psychological warfare. She framed it as destiny. As fate.