When I first matched with Claire online, I almost didn’t send the message. Not because I wasn’t interested, but because I’d grown tired of disappointing first dates and awkward conversations that never went anywhere. At thirty-six, I had spent
enough evenings sitting across from strangers to know how quickly excitement could dissolve into polite small talk and forced smiles. Yet something about Claire’s profile caught my attention. She had written less about herself and more about the things she loved: old bookstores, rainy mornings, train journeys through unfamiliar cities, and the habit of writing
