I've had a boyfriend from a dating app and I'm really not into

Host: The afternoon sun hung low over the city, melting into streaks of amber and dust. A small café terrace, half-hidden behind bougainvillea, buzzed with the murmur of distant traffic and the faint hum of a street guitarist playing something that felt like nostalgia.

Jack sat across from Jeeny, his grey eyes half-shaded beneath the rim of his coffee cup. His phone lay face-down on the table — as if the screen itself carried a weight he didn’t want to confront.

Jeeny, in contrast, was glowing. Not with joy exactly — more with that quiet, bittersweet clarity that comes after a storm.

Jeeny: “Alison Hammond said something today in an interview — ‘I’ve had a boyfriend from a dating app and I’m really not into them any more.’”

Host: A faint smile crossed Jack’s lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Jack: “That’s probably the most relatable thing I’ve heard all week. Digital roulette — swipe left, swipe right, and call it destiny.”

Jeeny: “Destiny’s not supposed to come with a login screen, Jack.”

Jack: “Maybe not. But that’s the only place it still picks up.”

Host: A gust of wind swept through, rattling the glasses and stirring the scent of coffee and lemon. A flyer from a nearby lamp post fluttered past them — a local art exhibit titled ‘The Loneliness of Connection.’

Jeeny: “Don’t you think it’s sad? That something meant to connect us has made us more disposable than ever?”

Jack: “You say ‘sad’ like it wasn’t inevitable. People are products now — profiles, bios, filters. Dating apps didn’t invent shallowness, Jeeny. They just made it efficient.”

Jeeny: “You always sound so cynical. But isn’t efficiency the enemy of intimacy?”

Jack: “Depends on what you want. Most people on those apps aren’t looking for intimacy — they’re looking for distraction. Validation. Something to fill the scroll.”

Jeeny: “Then why do they still call it love?”

Jack: “Because ‘temporary validation from algorithmic strangers’ doesn’t sell well.”

Host: Jeeny laughed, softly — not from humor, but from the kind of truth that hurts a little.

Jeeny: “Do you know what’s really strange? I tried it once. A dating app. The first message I got was, ‘You look familiar, have I seen you on Netflix?’”

Jack: “Well, that’s modern romance for you. Celebrity delusion meets dopamine addiction.”

Jeeny: “He wasn’t wrong — just wrong kind of familiar. He reminded me of every man I’d ever met who wanted attention more than connection.”

Jack: “And yet, that’s the new currency. Attention. Likes. Matches. You want to be seen, not known.”

Jeeny: “I don’t. I want to be understood.”

Jack: “That’s rarer than love itself.”

Host: The sunlight shifted, sliding down the table, illuminating the empty chair beside them — as if it too was listening. The city’s noise had quieted into a steady hum, a heartbeat beneath their words.

Jeeny: “Do you ever wonder if dating apps killed mystery?”

Jack: “Mystery didn’t die. It just got a bad Wi-Fi connection.”

Jeeny: “You joke, but I’m serious. We used to meet people by accident — bumping into someone at a bookstore, locking eyes across a train aisle. Now it’s just filters and proximity.”

Jack: “Accidents were romantic because they were rare. But rare things don’t scale. Tinder made randomness industrial.”

Jeeny: “Love shouldn’t scale, Jack. That’s the whole point.”

Host: The words landed between them like a soft thunderclap — quiet, but powerful enough to shift something unseen.

Jack: “So what then? We go back to the dark ages? Wait for fate to trip us into someone?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe we learn to stop mistaking availability for connection.”

Jack: “You think deleting the apps solves that?”

Jeeny: “No. But maybe deleting the illusion does.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his hands folded, his expression a mixture of defiance and weariness.

Jack: “You know, I once met someone through a dating app. We talked for weeks. Then we met — and she was… nothing like the conversations we had. It was like meeting a ghost of the person I fell for.”

Jeeny: “So what did you do?”

Jack: “I stayed. For a while. Trying to find the person behind the profile. But I realized she wasn’t hiding — she was just performing. And I guess I was too.”

Host: A pause. The air grew heavier, the sound of cups clinking and cutlery faint in the distance.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Alison Hammond meant — not that the people were bad, but that she was tired of performing. Of turning love into a transaction.”

Jack: “Performance is safer. You can control it. Realness is risk. Nobody swipes right on vulnerability.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we’ve forgotten how to fall. How to risk. Dating apps made everything convenient — except feelings.”

Host: The guitarist had shifted tunes now, plucking something melancholic, almost cinematic — a song that sounded like two hearts trying to find rhythm.

Jack: “It’s ironic. We built all this technology to connect, but what we really did was automate loneliness.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. We built bridges out of glass. They look beautiful, but they shatter when you step on them.”

Jack: “Still… sometimes they hold.”

Jeeny: “Do they?”

Jack: “I knew a couple who met online — six years together now. Married. Maybe it’s not the app. Maybe it’s us.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But when every conversation starts with ‘Hey’ and ends with a ghost, you start questioning the algorithm and yourself.”

Host: The sky was now blushing purple, the day slipping into evening. A waiter passed by with a tray, the faint clink of glasses echoing through the terrace like punctuation marks between their thoughts.

Jeeny: “Do you know why I think people keep trying? Even when it keeps breaking them?”

Jack: “Hope?”

Jeeny: “Habit. Hope’s prettier, but habit’s more honest. We keep swiping because we’re afraid of silence.”

Jack: “Silence forces you to meet yourself — and most people don’t like the company.”

Host: For a long moment, neither spoke. The city lights began to flicker on, one by one, like small confessions illuminating the night.

Jeeny: “You ever think about what it would feel like — to meet someone and not already know their favorite band or their pet’s name?”

Jack: “That’s terrifying.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Terrifying means it’s real.”

Host: Jack’s laugh came low, tired, but not unkind. He looked at Jeeny, finally meeting her eyes, and something unspoken passed — the recognition of two souls tired of pretending they didn’t care.

Jack: “Maybe Hammond’s right. Maybe we’ve just outgrown the swipe. Maybe what we really want isn’t a match — it’s a moment.”

Jeeny: “Yes. A moment that doesn’t need a notification to exist.”

Host: The street guitarist hit his final chord — a slow, lingering note that hovered in the air, refusing to die.

Jeeny: “I think love used to be about discovery. Now it’s about delivery.”

Jack: “Then maybe the bravest thing left is to stay offline.”

Jeeny: “Or to show up — fully — when you’re finally seen.”

Host: The light from a passing tram spilled across their faces, a fleeting glow that made them both look a little more human, a little more vulnerable.

Jack: “You know, maybe dating apps didn’t ruin love. Maybe they just revealed how shallow we already were.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe this — conversations like this — are how we find our depth again.”

Host: The camera would pan out now — the terrace, the empty cups, the guitarist packing up, the skyline awash in fading gold.

The world outside buzzed with a thousand notifications, but here, two people had found something quieter.

Something real.

Jeeny: “No swipes. No filters. Just truth.”

Jack: “And truth… might just be the rarest match of all.”

Host: The screen would fade to black, the music softening into silence. Only the faint sound of wind and laughter would remain — two echoes merging in a world too loud to notice.

And as the last ray of sun slipped beneath the horizon, the truth hung there — quiet, human, beautiful:

We are all still looking — not for love we can download, but for connection we can feel.