I think probably - I think, you know, when you're first dating

In the marketplaces of the heart, where hope haggles with fear and time audits every promise, a clear bell sounds: “When you’re first dating somebody, if they’re just not that physical with you, if they don’t want to make concrete plans with you, if they’re ambiguous about where everything is going, that is a pretty good sign they’re not into you.” These are plain words, forged for everyday use, yet beneath them lies an elder’s code: affection that is true steps forward; affection that is false steps sideways. The soul may stutter, but it does not hide. The hand that means to hold you learns your fingers; the voice that means to stay names a day and keeps it.

The wisdom is elemental. In love’s early dawn, intentions show themselves in small weather: a lean-in, a returned message, a date chosen and honored, a question asked and answered. Where warmth lives, it travels outward into touch, time, and trajectory—physical regard, concrete plans, and a path that is spoken aloud. Where warmth does not live, fog gathers. Words lengthen and say less; calendars stay empty; the future becomes a mirage described but never reached. In such mist, the ancients would not consult entrails or stars; they would consult behavior.

This saying rises from a modern oracle, a counselor of common sense who made a craft of decoding the ordinary. Its origin is that school of clear-seeing which refuses to romanticize neglect. Instead of reading tea leaves, it reads patterns: the steady absence masquerading as busyness, the perpetual “maybe” that is simply “no” in softer clothes. The teaching is kind not because it flatters, but because it frees: your worth is not proved by your endurance of mixed signals; it is honored by your willingness to heed them.

Consider a true story from letters and lamp-light. Franz Kafka courted Felice Bauer with pages of devotion and then drifted into irresolution—postponed meetings, canceled commitments, an engagement made and unmade. His genius could conjure worlds, but in love he often wandered the corridors of hesitation. The record is not a villain’s, but a portrait of ambiguity: feeling that speaks but will not choose, desire that circles but does not land. The lesson endures across a century: when someone leaves you in the vestibule of maybe, accept the sign as it is delivered—do not build a palace on a threshold.

There is mercy in this clarity. To admit “they’re not into you” is not to curse them or yourself; it is to return your time to you. The river of your life is long, but its banks are finite. Each week you spend decoding lukewarm signals is a week your courage could have traveled elsewhere—toward friends who show up, a craft that steadies you, a lover whose yes is audible even when the room is loud. Love honors truth, and the earliest truth is often the simplest: do they touch with tenderness, do they plan with purpose, do they speak with direction?

Let no one say that caution alone should rule. Fear can misread shyness as coldness, or trauma can silence the hand that yearns to reach. Therefore weigh context—but do not excuse a pattern. A good heart will tell you why it hesitates and will invite you into the work of building safety. A careless heart will hand you riddles and call you impatient for refusing to solve them. The difference is not hard to hear; it is only hard to accept.

So here is the lesson to pass down like a heirloom bowl: believe the signs that arrive in the currency of time, touch, and truth. Where there is care, there will be contact. Where there is intent, there will be a calendar. Where there is love, there will be language that points forward rather than dissolves into mist. Do not make idols of potential; do not light incense to a someday that never comes.

Practices for the road: (1) Before the first three dates, write a brief covenant with yourself—what concrete plans and communication cadence feel respectful to you. (2) After each meeting, record facts, not wishes: What did they do, not what did you hope? (3) Ask one directional question early—“What are you looking for in the next few months?”—and bless the answer, even if it releases you. (4) If you sense ambiguity, set a gentle boundary: “I’m seeking consistency and plans; if that’s not where you are, I’ll step back.” (5) When the pattern proves they’re not into you, close the door softly, and keep walking. The path grows brighter when you travel it with those whose hearts keep pace with your own.