That first hug felt like coming home.

Let’s be honest: I was done. I had officially retired from the dating game, deleted every app on my phone, and was fully prepared to become the eccentric neighbor who only talks to their plants. But boredom has a funny way of eroding your resolve, and one rainy Tuesday, I decided to give nikadate a try, fully expecting to hate it just as much as everything else.

I didn't go in with high hopes. In fact, I went in with zero hopes. I was ready for the usual chaos—people who can't hold a conversation, blurry photos that look like they were taken on a toaster, and the general exhaustion of trying to sell yourself to strangers.

But then, something weird happened. I actually started enjoying myself.

It started with the profiles. For the first time in forever, I wasn't just staring at a curated highlight reel of someone's gym progress. I was reading actual bios. People were writing about their weird hobbies, their favorite comfort foods, and the specific things that make them laugh.

I found myself pausing on a profile that wasn't overly polished. The photos were candid—one of him laughing so hard he looked a bit blurry, another of him trying (and failing) to cook something complex. He looked human. He looked approachable.

So, I sent a message.

Usually, this is the part where I regret it. I braced myself for the silence, or the dreaded one-word "hey." Instead, I got a reply twenty minutes later. And not just a reply, but a paragraph. He asked me about the book I mentioned in my profile. He made a joke that was actually funny.

We didn't jump straight into logistics. We just talked. We used the chat to actually get to know each other. It felt less like an interview and more like catching up with an old friend I hadn't met yet. We swapped stories about bad travel experiences and debated the best pizza toppings.

It was refreshing to just focus on the conversation. There was no pressure, just the steady ping of a new message that made me smile every time I saw it on my screen.

After a week of chatting, we decided to meet.

I’m naturally anxious, so the drive to the coffee shop felt like a military operation. My brain was feeding me all the usual worst-case scenarios. What if he’s totally different in person? What if we have nothing to talk about? What if I trip and spill my latte on him?

I walked in, scanning the room. And then I saw him.

He was sitting in the corner booth, looking at the menu. He looked up, saw me, and that genuine, blurry-laugh smile from his profile appeared in 4K resolution.

I walked over, my heart hammering against my ribs. I wasn't sure what the protocol was. Handshake? Wave?

He didn't hesitate. He stood up and opened his arms.

That first hug wasn't about fireworks. It wasn't that electric jolt that movies tell you to look for. It was something quieter and infinitely better. It was the feeling of shoulders dropping. The tension leaving my neck.

It felt safe. It felt familiar, even though we were strangers. It felt like walking through your front door, kicking off your shoes, and exhaling after a long, exhausting trip.

It felt like coming home.

We sat there for three hours. The coffee went cold, but neither of us cared. The conversation flowed just as easily as it had in the chat. We skipped the awkward small talk because we had already covered the basics online. We just existed in that comfortable space you usually only get with people you've known for years.

If you are where I was—skeptical, burnt out, and convinced that romance is dead—I get it. But sometimes, you just need to change the environment.

Here is what I learned from giving it one last shot:

I’m not saying every click leads to a soulmate. But I am saying that there are real people out there, looking for that same feeling of relief. I’m glad I logged in that Tuesday. I’m glad I sent that message.

Because that hug? It was worth every second of skepticism I had to overcome to get there.