People like to say love finds you when you least expect it. What they don’t tell you is that sometimes it also finds you on Hinge, after three months of texting, two stubborn personalities, and a breakup before a single date. From the very first message, it wasn’t small talk. There were jokes, challenges, debates about food, books, and life. He was stubborn. I was stubborn. Imagine two people who refused to lose an argument but secretly loved that the other could keep up. That was m But here’s the funny thing about fate: it doesn’t care about your pride. Before we stopped talking, he had recommended a book to me: Shantaram. “It’s a love story,” he said. At the time, I rolled my eyes. Was this another stubborn attempt to prove he had good taste? Probably. But then I started listening to it. And slowly, I got hooked. I listened while I worked, while I drove, while I did all the little pandemic things. The story pulled me in, page by page, chapter by chapter. It became a companion in those quiet, uncertain days. And without realizing it, it became a connection to him, too. Weeks passed. A month and a half, to be exact. I finished the book on a morning drive to work. The last words played, I smiled to myself, and just as I was settling into that bittersweet feeling of an ending, my phone buzzed. A text. From him. “So… how did you like the book?” Now, let me paint this clearly: the very second the audiobook ended, his message appeared. Perfect timing. Almost creepy timing. I actually looked over my shoulder into the back seat because for a split second, I was convinced he was in the car. And here’s the thing—I had promised myself I would never, ever reply if he texted again. So I broke my own rule. I replied. And just like that, the door reopened. We texted that day with the same spark as before—quick wit, playful jabs, stubborn edges—but there was something softer now too. Something that hinted we both knew this wasn’t over. That same Tuesday, we decided: let’s meet. Finally. It was the middle of the pandemic, so even the idea of a “first date” felt surreal. My nerves were all over the place. What to wear? How to do my hair? He, of course, would later say I was “30 minutes late.” I prefer to call it “15 minutes fashionably late.” Either way, let’s agree: I wasn’t on time. When I finally walked in, he had that calm, steady presence, as if he’d been waiting not just half an hour, but maybe forever. I, on the other hand, was a swirl of nerves and excitement, pretending to be composed while wondering if he could hear my heart pounding. And then came the lesson. Not about life, not about love, but about—wait for it—how to apologize. Yes. I laughed, rolled my eyes, threw in a playful, “I don’t need lessons in apologizing,” but secretly, I was charmed. The night carried on with that same mix of humor and something unspoken. A tension. A possibility. The kind of feeling that lingers between the lines of a conversation, even when you’re talking about the silliest things. He walked me to my car. We both had our reservations, both cautious, both secretly wondering if this would be the first and last time. And yet—when he leaned in for a hug, something shifted. It wasn’t just a polite goodbye. It was electricity. The moment his arms wrapped around me, I felt it—magic, undeniable, immediate. We pulled back, smiled, and still—words failed us. On the surface, we said we’d part ways. We played it cool. But inside, I knew. From that hug alone, I knew. That night, what started as stubbornness and laughter turned into something deeper. Something real. Because sometimes love doesn’t begin with fireworks or grand gestures. Sometimes it starts with a hug in a parking lot during a pandemic, the kind that leaves you trembling, smiling, and absolutely certain that fate just got the last laugh. And now, here we are—still stubborn, still learning how to apologize