CHARLOTTE: Ghost of the Present
“Why don’t you try Hinge? It’s a bit different from the other dating apps and all the cool people are on there now!”
My friend looked at me with a big grin, waiting for me to yield to her ambitious idea. Ever since she got herself a boyfriend, she became determined to find my significant other too. The reason why seems to vary from day to day: “We could go on a double date!” or “You deserve someone who sees how great you are, who treats you well” or “You are young, hot and you live in London, so enjoy your twenties!” I think she’s worried that I will get lonely.
The grin changed to puppy-eyes and I gave in. When I downloaded Hinge, I almost deleted it within a minute. It turned out that creating a profile was the first test of my resolution to date. First, I had to find the right pictures: there has to be at least one where I look decent, one surrounded by people to prove my social status, one less serious – more fun, one ambiguously cool, and one designed “snapshot of life”. My friend kept airdropping photos until we found the perfect curated slideshow. When I thought I was done, the app asked me about my star sign, religion, drug-use, height… all of which – to me – seemed quite personal. And still, this wasn’t enough information to meet my soulmate. Hinge offered me prompts that could give candidates an insight into my mind: My simple pleasures; Fact about me that surprises people; Typical Sunday. There were lists and lists of questions you could answer either typed or with a voice note, but the latter only made me more anxious. In the end, it took me over two hours to set-up a profile, this includes deleting and re-starting it twice after more pep talks and puppy-eyes.
The first days, swiping felt as if I was making life-changing decisions. I scanned every picture, analysed every prompt-answer, and imagined what it would be like to date someone who lives on the other side of London. Looking back, I’m not sure if someone even passed this stage. Soon after, the brainrot came. People faded into blurred faces and names on a screen. In a minute, dozens of potential dates were brutally rejected with a click of my thumb. It was a genocide. Even though I wasn’t looking for something or someone in particular, nobody seemed to fit the unknown criteria.
“Give me that phone,” my friend said as she snatched it out of my hands.
After two unfruitful weeks, she figured that swiping is a two-man job where she would serve as a buffer. My phone was placed in the middle of the table, photo’s and prompts were rated, and after an elaborate discussion a verdict was made: smash or pass. When a message came in, she immersed herself into “me” – the introverted art/book loving sucker for coffee bars – and answered perfectly with my voice, not too neutral, not too flirty. In the end, she succeeded in her assignment. After a match and some texting, I exchanged my Instagram with Y. and a date was set.
His Instagram told me two things.
First, we had no shared interests. We didn’t follow the same accounts, not even national geographic or any news outlet, which felt like a bad omen.
Secondly, and equally daunting, Y. was a true skaterboy, no poser. There were video’s of him doing tricks, like kickflips – I think, since my knowledge ends there – and photos of him being featured in an underground skate magazine. Up until the Instagram exchange, our conversations were centered around being an international in London, me asking tips on Japan (he’s Japanese), biking and how it is the best way to discover a place, and our experiences in Berlin.
“You can’t cancel someone based on the profiles they follow on Instagram,” my friend rolled her eyes, “you always find excuses.”
“But he skates!” I exclaimed. Her look told me I just proved her point. I grunted and leaned back in my chair. We were supposed to do some work today, but somehow the conversation returned to dating.
“Forget it, it doesn’t matter anymore. I’m sure I’m currently being ghosted by him.” I grabbed my glass of water in front of me and took a big sip to avoid her gaze. Maybe this is why I was making up these excuses. They functioned as a cocoon of empty words that could protect me. When I suggested we switch to Instagram and meet in real life, Y. proposed to have a coffee the following Tuesday. Days passed and there was uncertainty on which cafe. But when I texted him, there was a radio silence. I knew what he was doing, since I had done it before: ghosting, ignoring the person or situation until it simply flies over.
“Well he’s a coward and not worth your attention,” my friend concluded after scrolling through our chat. I nodded but couldn't stop thinking, “why?”
The night before our supposed date I provoked Y. with one simple text.
“Just to check: are you still free tomorrow or is this week not a good timing.”
Yet, still no answer, and when Tuesday came, I already called it karma for my own past as a ‘bad communicator’.
Instead of coffee, I went for a walk in the park. I listened to the duet of raindrops falling on my umbrella and my thoughts summarising all the possible reasons I was ‘stood up’. One brought me to peace, the other made me too self conscious. They balanced each other out. I called my friend because I needed someone to say it out loud.
“It is definitely not you, he’s just a dick.”
So, I quit rereading all of my texts and concluded it wasn’t meant to be. The rain stopped and I came from underneath the canopy of leaves, retracing my steps back home.
That evening, Y. finally texted me back.
“I'm so sorry, I’ve been really busy lately. I need to sort out a few personal things till the end of the month but I can go for a coffee after. My apologies.”
I responded 24 hours later, since the pettiness felt righteous. “Maybe it would be best if you suggest a day when things are less busy. If you still want to, of course.” The tone was perfect, in my opinion. It suggested I was a bit disappointed but open for a rematch. He read my text, and disappeared again.
If it had stayed with the one-time ghosting, if he hadn’t offered to reschedule our date, I wouldn't be offended. The thing is, he never fully disappeared. Instagram snitched his lingering presence in my digital realm. When I opened my messages, it would let me know if he is online with the green dot almost persuading me into a foolish demand for explanation. When I posted a story, his name was on the list of viewers, still lurking yet not responding. Apparently, there is a term for this kind of behaviour: orbiting. Y. orbited in a curved path around my periphery. Until, one day he liked my story – an aesthetic snapshot of my lunch in a cute, Japanese cafe – which might have been an accident or his patriotism. It didn’t really matter, because the next day he unfollowed me, perhaps out of shame. Everything felt like a joke. The only thing I could do was laugh, laugh with the absurdity of it all; laugh with friends while nodding our heads, “Never trust skaterboys,” and then we sang Avril Lavigne; laugh with the fact that this was my first dip into the dating pool of London.
Months later, I still haven’t deleted Hinge but only remember to open it once a week. I don’t really swipe, and if I have a match I don’t respond. The ghosted and ghoster have blurred into apathy. Perhaps, this is the lesson I can draw from it: staying behind a screen is too comfortable. In a world divided by conflict, avoiding small ones feels like self-care. So, does this mean I should delete Hinge, leave my phone behind, step outside my room, and ‘put myself out there’ like a young bride coming of age? I can act mysterious in a coffee shop and wait for that one barista to ask me out. Or, I can attend supper clubs and launching parties, since these are the new places London’s socialites gather.
“It will come when you least expect it,” my friend calmly said, renouncing her previous efforts to find my significant other. It was a defeat for both of us.