When was the last time you locked eyes with someone across a crowded room and felt that electric pull…before you even knew their name? When did it last happen without a profile to scroll, a bio to dissect, or a phone between you?
I sometimes wonder if we’ve forgotten the art of romance? Not just dating, but romance. The grand gestures, the letters written by hand, the flowers sent without reason, the way someone once might have stood outside your window in the rain, just to prove they cared. In books, men bought houses across the water just to be near the woman they loved, Gatsby staring out across the bay at Daisy’s green light. Mr. Darcy crossed fields at dawn. Heathcliff waited years, loving in anger and longing all the same. Romance wasn’t just declared; it was demonstrated.
For me, it’s been years since I felt that. I’m 26, I live in London, and I’ve been single for nearly six. Somewhat by choice, but more by circumstance and a very specific brand of pandemic heartbreak, as well as the horror stories I have experienced myself, heard from friends, or caught on the ‘Are We Dating The Same Person’ Facebook group.
My last relationship imploded in lockdown, when I found out the man I was living with was also playing “weekend dad” with another woman (a divorced mother of two) in a life I didn’t even know existed. The isolation didn’t just trap me in a flat; it trapped me in a double life I didn’t sign up for.
When the world reopened, dating didn’t feel the same. The pandemic had turned dating apps from a convenience into thedefault. We learned to shop for love like we shop for groceries: filter, scroll, discard. The randomness of meeting someone in real life became almost mythical, the dating equivalent of finding a handwritten love letter on your doorstep.
Fast forward to August 2025. I’m not on the apps anymore, and I honestly can’t remember the last time a man approached me in person. I’m not alone in this (trust me, I’ve checked). ALL my friends, gorgeous and brilliant, are in the same drought. We go out, we live our lives, and yet somehow, the organic meet-cute feels extinct.
This summer has been… dry. Last year was recklessly fun, full of flings and late-night kisses with people whose last names I didn’t even know. This year? Nothing. My desire to connect has been so low it’s almost like my libido went on annual leave.
Until, unexpectedly, I found myself invited to hang out with a group of guys celebrating a bachelor party. One of them caught my attention, and for the first time in months, there was that spark. Not through a profile picture. Not through a DM. In real life, standing across from me, in the middle of a conversation that wasn’t curated by an app’s algorithm.
And here’s the twist — he’s American. And I don’t know if it’s just me, but lately, I’ve been thinking American men might be the answer to a starved London girl’s love life. There’s an openness, a charm, a genuine interest that feels worlds away from the performative coolness and quiet cynicism I’ve grown used to here. No sleazy lines, no drawn-out game playing, no, just directness that feels both refreshing and wildly attractive.
It reminded me of something I’d almost forgotten: people still meet each other authentically. Attraction still happens when you’re not expecting it. And yes, maybe it won’t look like Gatsby’s mansion or Mr. Darcy’s early-morning trek, but it can still be real, tangible, and surprising.
So here’s my thought: maybe it’s time to stop waiting for the right swipe. Go to that party. Say yes to that random after-work drink. Meet your friend’s friends. Put yourself in rooms where sparks can actually fly. Because the apps may have made dating more efficient, but they’ve also made it less alive.
Romance isn’t dead. But if you want it…the flowers, the letters, the showing up, you might have to meet it halfway. And who knows… it just might have an American accent.
