When I first met Hayden, he had an insane accent and spoke almost exclusively in British profanity. Not used to being tricked by strangers, I asked him all about his charmed life in Essex, his wonderful American auntie, and his travels around the world. We became fast friends. That week, I invited Hayden and his friends (who were actually from the UK) to every plan I could think of. They were so fun, and they made me laugh. I felt surprised and lucky that they wanted to spend their few days in America with my friends and me. Halfway through the week, after introducing Hayden and his friends to everyone I knew as “the British boys,” I stumbled across his Instagram account on a friend’s phone. The profile, which had recently been switched to private, consisted almost entirely of high school dance photos. Rows and rows. Hm. When I confronted Hayden about having the most stereotypically Utah social media page in maybe all of Utah, he laughed, and I got to hear his real voice for the first time. Feelings of betrayal were quickly matched by excitement that he would actually be sticking around. Too soon, our friends headed back home, and Hayden and I lost our channel of communication. I had always just messaged them and had never thought to get Hayden’s number specifically. So I did what any friend would do: I slipped back onto that infamous Instagram page and into Hayden’s DMs. I wasn’t about to lose track of the strange, tricky boy who had given me such a happy week. Before I knew it, I was on my way to Chipotle for our first date, and two months later, Hayden let me be his girlfriend.