So I accidentally ended up in a long-distance relationship because the guy I matched with turned out to live *three* time zones away (thanks, “Expand search radius” feature). I was like, “Okay, it’s just texting. What’s the harm?” Fast-forward two months: I’m emotionally invested, calling him every night, and my cat thinks I’m dating my laptop.
We started doing “virtual dates,” which sounds romantic but mostly involved laggy video calls and one of us freezing mid-bite like an awkward Sims character. Once, we tried cooking together. He’s all, “Let’s make spaghetti from scratch!” Meanwhile, I was googling if tomato paste can expire and accidentally set off my smoke detector. He still says the sound of that alarm gives him PTSD.
Our rituals became kinda sacred, though. Every Sunday, we’d have this thing called “Meme Church” where we’d send each other memes and rate them on a scale from “heh” to “choked on my drink.” We also shared a Spotify playlist. It started with cute love songs and devolved into chaotic nonsense like sea shanties and screaming goats. True bonding.
One night, I felt brave and told him something super vulnerable—like, deep childhood wound kind of stuff. His response? He sent me a dumb selfie with the caption “your face when you realize therapy works.” I laughed so hard I forgot I was crying. 10/10, emotional intimacy achieved.
By the time we actually met IRL, we already knew each other’s weird habits. He knew I drink cold coffee on purpose. I knew he talks to himself when doing laundry. There was no awkward phase. We skipped right to comfortable silence and arguing about which side of the bed is “technically the better one.”
Long-distance dating was wild. I fell in love through a screen, bonded over failed recipes, and realized that emotional connection isn’t about proximity—it’s about showing up, even if your WiFi barely does.
