We’ve lost the art of waiting. We skip intros. We play podcasts at 1.5x. We read summaries instead of books.  We want it now. We want the dopamine, the distraction, the validation. The instant gratification. The tiny digital hit that tells us we matter. And we get it. The more we consume, the less we feel.

Even joy has a shelf life. A viral video is funny for 48 hours. A meme becomes old before it reaches its peak.

The internet trained us to move on before the moment is even over. It erased patience. It erased anticipation. The delicious kind. The kind that made your stomach flutter, your thoughts spiral, your heart pace just a little too fast.   The kind that made real life feel cinematic.

I remember when meeting someone meant something. When someone walking toward you could change your night. When conversation flowed without being typed. When a single, accidental encounter could throw off your whole day. Not one silly notification.

Where did the magic go?!              

Now I know his entire personality before I’ve heard his voice. I know if he’s a “sunset over sunrise” kind of guy and whether he’s ever run a marathon. Before I even met him, I had built and dismantled a version of him in my head.

I’ve judged him based on six photos, two emojis, and whether or not he uses punctuation.

Dating apps made people available like playlists. Too available. Swipe left if you’re bored, swipe right if you're lonely—filter for height, job, and intention. Browse through humanity like it’s a catalogue, and then complain when nothing feels real.

We’ve gamified connection and treat people like content, a feed. A to-do list… and then we wonder why we’re so lonely.

Sure, the apps give you options. A parade of faces. A few decent conversations. A date here and there. But that rare spark that hits you in the chest like a surprise is gone.

The kind of romance I miss wasn’t planned. It happened between errands. In the corner of a party you weren’t sure you wanted to attend. Or as you rushed into your favourite bar on a rainy Tuesday, wet hair, low expectations. The one that came unannounced.

I’m not romanticising the past for the sake of it. I know that bars were noisy, and sometimes the guy who approached you was just… strange. But still, there was magic. Real-world, inconvenient, unscripted magic. And now it feels like we’ve outsourced even that.

Now we cancel plans because we don’t feel like it. We lie because it’s easier than being honest. We move on because we can. We treat intimacy like a podcast episode. Easy to pause, easy to forget.

We delete and then we reactivate.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve met people online. I’ve fallen for people online.
But I’ve never felt online what I’ve felt when someone looked at me like they really saw me, and I mean really saw me, in person. Not a version of me, not my profile. ME.

Because what I miss isn’t just romance. It’s a mystery. It’s a chance.

And the courage it takes to walk up to someone and say something without a script. Yeah! And maybe that’s the real loss. Not just the mystery, but the courage. The courage it once took to walk across a room, to say something unpracticed, to risk being rejected in real time.

We’ve replaced that courage with convenience. But what we gained in efficiency, we lost in depth.

I don’t want to be perfect. I want real.

And real doesn’t always come with a blue check or a smart or funny bio.
Sometimes, it comes with stuttering words, a nervous smile, and a moment that lingers.

And I’d take that moment over all the matches in the world.