The Match Was Perfect. The Third Date Was Not. | The Love-Bombing Red Flag on Dating Apps

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The first message came at 7-12 on a Monday morning. Good morning, beautiful. I matched with you last night, and I've already been thinking about you since. I was standing in my kitchen with one shoe on. I remember because I stopped, shoe in my hand, and read it twice. I had been on that app for eight months. Nobody had ever written to me like I was already the best thing that had happened to them. His name was Marcus. He worked in logistics. He had a dog named Biscuit and a photo of himself at his sister's graduation. Smiling at the camera like a man with nothing to hide. By Monday night, we had exchanged 40 messages. By Wednesday, he was calling me before work, and again at lunch, and again when I got home. He wanted to know everything. What I ate, what my mother was like, what I was afraid of. I told him, that is the part I think about the most.

Nobody forced me. Every question felt like proof that someone finally cared enough to ask. On Thursday, he sent me a song. On Friday, he sent flowers to my office, and my co-workers stood around my desk and said, Who is this guy? And I laughed, and I felt, for the first time in a long while, chosen. On Saturday, we had our first date. A small Italian place, two tables from the window. He pulled my chair out. He held my hand across the table before the bread even arrived. And he said it. I don't say this to people. I have never said this to anyone. I think I'm falling for you, and I know that's fast, and I don't care. I said I felt it too. And the strange thing is, I believed that I did.

The second date was a walk by the river. He told me about an ex who had been cruel to him, and how he had promised himself he would never settle again. He said I was the first person who made him feel safe. He said it twice. Then, he asked if I could cancel my plans for the following weekend because he wanted to take me away for two days. I had promised my friend Danielle I would help her move. He said of course no pressure. But he went quiet for a moment, and the quiet had a shape to it. I felt it. I said I would see what I could do.

That night he sent me four messages before I fell asleep. Each one a little longer than the one before. He missed me. He couldn't wait. He was already imagining the trip. The third date was a Thursday.

I had come straight from work, tired, and he was waiting outside the restaurant with a small paper bag. Inside was a toothbrush, pink, still in the package.

I got you one for my place, he said, grinning. So you'll always have one there. I want to be honest about what I felt. I felt flattered and I felt a small cold drop in my stomach at the same time.

I remember thinking, this is what it feels like when something is moving faster than I am. I put the toothbrush in my bag and said, thank you. We sat down. He ordered for both of us. When the waiter left, he asked me lightly whether I had settled things with Danielle about the weekend.

I told him I couldn't cancel on her. She was alone and she had asked me weeks before. He didn't argue. He didn't raise his voice.

He nodded slowly. And then he looked down at the menu he was no longer reading.

I understand, he said, and the warmth left the table. I do not know how else to describe it. Nothing was said that you could write down and hold up to a friend. He was polite. He finished his meal. He answered my questions in a few words. The man who had called me beautiful 41 times in 11 days, I had counted later, was suddenly a stranger being careful with me.

I tried to fix it. That is what I want you to hear.

I leaned across the table and I asked him what was wrong, and I apologized for something and I could not tell you for what. I offered to talk to Danielle. I said maybe she would understand. He smiled, small and tired and said, you don't have to do that. And then he reached over and squeezed my hand, and the warmth came back for about a minute, just enough to make me feel like I had been forgiven.

I walked home that night holding the pink toothbrush in my bag. I did not sleep. I lay there and I counted what I had done wrong and what I could do on Saturday to earn the man back that I had met on Monday. The next day was Friday and the messages started at 6.4 in the morning. Good morning. I hope you're not upset with me. I was probably too intense last night. I'm sorry. I just really like you. He was apologizing for what I had done. I noticed that a little. The way you notice a draft in a room. But I was so relieved to have the warmth back that I wrote, No, you were perfect. I'm sorry too. That was the first time I apologized for him being hurt by my no. It was not the last. On Saturday, I helped Danielle move. Her new place was a third floor walk up and we carried boxes up the stairs for six hours. At some point, she sat down on a stack of books and asked me why I kept looking at my phone.