Almost Lovers

It’s January 2024. I’m 28, finally feeling like my life is gaining some momentum again.

My company has just called us back to the office after three long years of working from home. So I pack my bags, leave Lucknow, and move to Gurgaon. New city. New flat. New chapter.

I share the flat with two of my friends — Prerna,my colleague, and Ananya, my college mate. There’s a warm sense of independence settling in. After years of pandemic-induced confinement, waking up to the buzz of the city feels surreal. The sunlight pours in through my bedroom window. I sit by the bed, sipping tea, half-wrapped in a blanket, absorbing the newness of it all.

It’s a lazy Sunday morning, and Prerna and I are talking about dating apps. She insists Gurgaon has a “decent crop of men.” I raise an eyebrow. Decent men? Online? In this economy? But curiosity gets the better of me, and within ten minutes, I’m downloading Bumble.

At first, I don’t use it much. But once Prerna leaves for her hometown the next day, boredom and loneliness begin to set in — and so do the swipes.

That’s when Nihal appears on my screen.

Curly hair. Soft eyes. Working for a management consultancy. Clever bio, killer smile, curly hair? Okay, Cupid. He seems kind, grounded, and — unlike most bios I’ve read — not emotionally allergic to commitment. He writes that he’s looking for “something real,” which I’m suspiciously charmed by.

And then… he matches with me.

We start talking. It’s awkwardly polite at first, those one-liner exchanges where both people are trying not to sound like bots. But by day three, our messages evolve into paragraphs. Long, sincere paragraphs. We bond over our introversion, our shared love for music and movies, and our mutual disdain for small talk.

We move to WhatsApp. He asks me things like:

“Hey Riya, how are you holding up in a new city?”

“What does your perfect weekend look like?”

“Did anyone ever tell you your texts read like a comfort novel?”

I laugh. This man knows how to hold a conversation. I tell him about my love for red velvet cake. He tells me about his past relationship. We both have our emotional bruises. Our traumas align a little too well. I start thinking — is this what healing looks like?

After ten days of consistent chatting, we decide to meet.

We pick Saturday. I’m leaving for Lucknow the next day (hybrid work life). So we plan a quick coffee date at Third Wave Coffee.

But Saturday morning comes — and nothing. No “Good morning, can’t wait to see you.” No confirmation. Just digital crickets.

By afternoon, I give in and text him:

“Hey, are we still on for today?”

He replies: his grandfather passed away that morning.

I freeze.

He says he still really wants to meet, if only briefly, before heading out to Patna for the rituals the next day. Part of me is confused — who goes on a date hours after losing a grandparent? But another part of me is deeply touched. Is this… extra effort? Emotional resilience? Or just a man who really wants to keep his word?

So I say yes.

I spend the next hour getting ready. It’s my first-ever Bumble date. I choose a red turtleneck sweater — red is my color, always has been — bootcut jeans, white sneakers, gold hoops, and my favorite watch. I go light on makeup. Just enough to look put-together, not like I’m showing up to a photoshoot while his family is in mourning.

I leave home by 5 p.m. and reach Third Wave Coffee by 5:30. He says he’s already there.

I look around. Then, from a short distance, someone waves at me.

It’s him.

My hands go cold. I’m suddenly nervous. Very nervous.

We walk up to each other. He smiles and says,

“Hey… you must be Riya.”

We shake hands. I smile awkwardly. My expressions are doing their own thing. We sit in the corner. The lights are mellow. The table is small. The conversation — immediate.

He orders the coffee. We talk about marriage pressure, our weird relationship with adulthood, how all our friends are suddenly engaged or married. We bond over being the only child. We talk about music. Growing up in small towns. Family WhatsApp groups. The fear of becoming our parents. It’s easy. Real.

At one point, a sugar container on the table starts tipping toward my hand. Before I can flinch, Nihal reaches out and steadies it.

A tiny gesture — but in that moment, it hits me. He’s listening, he’s present, and he’s watching out for me. That’s rare. That’s… romantic.

We sit for two hours. His head is resting in his hand, eyes focused on me. I feel seen. We make plans to meet again — he even suggests a new café.

Outside, we do a quick side hug, and I get into my cab. He texts:

“Did you reach safely?”

I reply:

“Yes, just did :)”

That night, I meet my friends Avni and Antara and give them the full date download. I’m glowing. Floating. Floating on a conversation that felt real.

But then… Sunday arrives.

No message.

Then Monday. Tuesday.

Nothing.

I text him once — something casual. No reply.

He’s online on WhatsApp. But my messages? Unread.

Ghosted.

I wait a week. Still nothing. My birthday comes and goes on February 20th. No wishes. No closure. Not even a lazy emoji.

Eventually, I delete his contact. Cry a little. Laugh a little. Shake my head a lot.

It’s ironic. The first guy I match with. The first time I feel a flutter in months. And he disappears like a plot twist no one wanted.

In my head, we were almost something.

But in reality?

Just another almost lover.