I met him on one of those dating apps that feels more like scrolling through a catalogue than searching for anything meaningful. I wasn’t expecting much. Then I matched with Soren.
He lived in a small coastal town in Norway. I lived in a cramped flat in Bristol, staring out at endless rain and concrete. While I complained about my dead-end job and the gray sameness of my days, he sent photos of the Northern Lights glowing over snow-covered hills. He’d write things like, “You should come here someday. You’d love it.” For months, those messages were my escape.
We talked constantly. Video calls stretched late into the night, the time difference turning our conversations into something sacred and deliberate. He was thoughtful, attentive, and uncannily good at knowing what to say when I felt invisible or exhausted. He talked about hiking trails, quiet mornings, and working as a freelance translator. It sounded peaceful. Almost unreal.
Still, I stayed guarded. I’d been disappointed before by people who loved the idea of connection more than the effort it required.
After one especially brutal day at work—my boss taking credit for my work again—I decided to test him. I wanted to see if he was serious or just enjoying the fantasy. Without thinking too hard, I typed, “I quit my job. I’m coming. Nothing’s keeping me here,” and hit send.
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