I have been in this city for exactly three weeks, and my apartment still looks like a cardboard fortress. There is something uniquely disorienting about moving to a new place alone. You have this blank canvas of a life, but mostly, you just have a lot of bubble wrap and no idea where to find good takeout.
By Friday, the silence of my unpacked living room was getting to me. I needed to hear a voice that wasn’t a podcast. I didn't want a tour guide; I wanted a connection, however brief, with someone who actually lived here. That desire to bridge the gap between "tourist" and "local" is what pushed me to open my laptop. I’d spent a good hour reading through user experiences and safety advice on datempire.com before I finally mustered the courage to set up a profile. It felt like a small, necessary step toward feeling human again. I wasn't looking for a movie romance; I was just looking for a conversation that didn't involve my landlord.
That’s how I ended up standing outside the Botanical Garden gates on a gray Sunday, clutching a dripping umbrella. His name was Elias. When he walked up, he didn't look like a model from a magazine. He looked like a guy who had also woken up early on a Sunday—a bit sleepy, wearing a jacket that had seen better days. It was instantly reassuring.
"The tropical house?" he suggested, pointing toward the large glass dome. "It’s warmer in there."
We walked in, and the humidity hit us like a wall. The first thing that happened was that my glasses fogged up completely. I stood there, blind and blinking, feeling ridiculous. Instead of an awkward pause, I heard him laugh—a low, genuine sound. "Happens to me every time," he said, handing me a tissue from his pocket. That small gesture broke the tension better than any rehearsed pickup line could have.
We wandered through the aisles of monsteras and orchids. The air smelled of damp earth and chlorophyll, a heavy, grounding scent. We didn't talk about our deepest fears or whether we believed in soulmates. We talked about plants. I admitted I had killed every succulent I ever owned; he confessed he was trying to grow tomatoes on his fire escape with mixed results.
There was a rhythm to the conversation that felt comfortable. No pressure to impress, no desperate search for common ground. We just walked. At one point, we stopped to look at a massive lily pad. We stood in silence for maybe two minutes, watching the water ripple. In past dates, silence usually made me panic, scrambling for a topic to fill the void. Here, it just felt like we were both looking at the same thing, understanding it in the same way.
Later, we sat on a bench near the exit. My feet were tired, and my hair was frizzy from the humidity. I wasn't worrying about how I looked. I was listening to him describe the best bakery in the neighborhood, mental notes forming in my head.
There were no fireworks. The sky didn't part to reveal a sign. It was just a really nice Sunday. I walked home feeling less like a stranger in this city. The cardboard boxes were still there, but the apartment felt a little less empty.
