We Never Had a First Date

They say the worst kind of heartbreak isn’t when something ends—it’s when something never even begins.

I still remember the red sweater I was planning to wear. It had taken me three outfit changes and two phone calls to my best friend to settle on it. I wasn’t nervous exactly—just... hopeful. After weeks of late-night conversations, inside jokes, and messages that got deeper than we intended, it felt like more than just texting. You felt like something real.

We had never met in person. Just mutual friends, a couple of social media follows, and then—bam—we started talking. What started as innocent replies to each other’s stories turned into hour-long voice notes, music recommendations, and confessions about life. You told me how you liked your coffee bitter but your mornings sweet. I told you how I always judged people by the books on their shelves. We clicked. Instantly. Naturally. Completely.

So when you finally said, “Let’s meet for coffee this Friday?” it felt like the next chapter had already begun writing itself.

I showed up ten minutes early. The café was exactly how we imagined it—small, cozy, a window seat with just the right amount of afternoon sun. I picked that one. I ordered two cappuccinos, just the way you liked them. I even remembered to ask for cinnamon on top, the way you once said your mom used to make it.

And then… I waited.

At first, I thought maybe you were just running late. Maybe traffic. Maybe a last-minute call. I smiled at every person who walked in, thinking it might be you. But it never was.

I checked my phone—no texts. I refreshed it. Still nothing. I started playing back our last conversation in my head. You had sounded excited. You had used a smiley face. That had to mean something.

Thirty minutes passed.

Then an hour.

The coffee got cold. My hope, colder.

The waitress came by, her expression sympathetic, and asked, “Would you like anything else?”

I shook my head and muttered something about leaving soon.

I walked home, numb. Confused. I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t even embarrassed. Just… disappointed. Not in you, necessarily, but in the story we didn’t get to write.

Days passed. Then weeks. You never reached out. I wanted to ask what happened, but I didn’t. Part of me wanted to believe something serious had come up—something so big that even texting was impossible. But the other part of me, the more honest one, knew that sometimes people just walk away from potential. Not because they’re cruel. But because they’re scared of how real it feels.

Months later, I saw your name pop up online. You were still posting your playlists. Still making dumb jokes in your captions. Still drinking that same cinnamon cappuccino, now tagged with someone else.

And I smiled.

Because even though we never had a first date, I’ll never forget the feeling of almost.

The kind of almost that keeps you up at night.

The kind of almost that makes you wonder how different life could’ve been.

The kind of almost that reminds you that some connections, no matter how brief, are still worth remembering.

Ending Note:

We never had a first date. But in some strange, poetic way, you were still the first person to make me believe in something again. Even if it ended before it started.