I hope you’re doing okay.

I thought I might hear from you, given the world (as we know it) is seemingly ending. But I didn’t.

I honestly considered texting just to make sure you were alive. But I just didn’t.

I’m not exactly mad. My heart is not broken because of you. I may even go as far as saying that I kind of get you. And from the clarity that comes with a global pandemic, I’ll tell you this:

I know you think you have it all figured out. Going out with someone (whomever that is) is a lot better than sitting in a death-quiet room on your own on any given day, especially on Fridays. Men’s most appreciated skills in dating involve tricking women into a bar and maybe later into his bed and basically figuring out a clever and successful strategy based on how she dresses or wears her hair.

“Nice men” won’t cross the line, but maybe they will tease a little to understand their ground, and then they will push it, “kindly.” And if they mess up, they could always use their “coolness” or “dark” sense of humor to be off the hook.

Things have changed, but most of us still struggle as if we were on a battlefield. Dating still feels like a power struggle where the one who feels less holds control, and that pretty much determines the winner. It may not be as politically correct to say it out loud, but you probably still think that the amount (and quality) of those wins will make you liked by men and wanted by women. Maybe then you will get the love (and sex) you deserve.

We both knew how this would play out. Even as we lay close in bed, my head on your chest, holding hands like a cheesy scene from any PG-13 movie, I knew I wouldn’t see you for a while.

I don’t regret it. My body and my heart were aching for closeness, but mostly they ached to believe, even for a few hours. And I’ll give that to you: the softness of your kiss, that delicate dance between tenderness and passion in your touch seemed almost real. But as we both know by now, that doesn’t mean that they actually are.

I’ve decided to save that memory as the only one from you. By now, everything else seems sort of meaningless to hold space in my mental records. That’s the kind of thing you realize by staring a little too long into almost transparent white walls standing all around you during self-quarantine.

I don’t know if you’ll ever call or show yourself again. The truth is, I hope you don’t. Like I said, I’m not mad—maybe just a little disappointed.

I guess this is the time when I come forward and say that I do know how to play (at least for a little while), and even when I hate it with everything I am, I still don’t want to lose—and yes, I think that qualifies as playing.

In the end, I’m just in defensive mode, waiting for the worst and hoping for someone to prove me wrong. Obviously, you weren’t that guy. And it’s okay. I don’t think I know what I’m doing here either; just please don’t be this guy forever. I don’t know you that much, but I can still see something in you, something that rises above this strongly rooted idea that makes you act like a 2-D robot with a pretty overrated script.

I know they told us that not caring was cool.

It’s not.

Not caring about people you spend time with is boring and cruel. And it’s also cowardly. Because life is too short to spend it with people you feel “meh” about—worst to spend it with people whom you actually don’t give a f*ck about.

Just don’t.

Look for people who light you up, who light up your spirit, your curiosity, your mind. Look for people who inspire you. Your time and energy are all you really have. Spend them with people whom you’d take a bullet for, people you will hug like you really mean (after social distancing ends, of course).

Look for people who make you laugh like a five-year-old, but also make you question your thoughts, your beliefs, yourself. If you already have them, then please spare yourself a night of uncomfortably trying to win over someone—who you’ll never call again—for attention or sex, and spend it with them.

If you have the blessing of being attracted to any of these people, please don’t look away.

You deserve that. You deserve to actually feel.

You deserve to be terrified by the notion of something inside cracking you open, and you deserve the strength to face it, to let that universe that’s been numbing inside you to awaken and finally take a peek outside.

You deserve hours of talking and hours of silence that will seem like 10 minutes.

You deserve that little panic in your chest, that shortened breath when you first touch her. You deserve a first kiss that sends a shiver from your lips to your toes, and then to your whole body.

You deserve magical sex and supernova-like orgasms—not just one-night stands, not just awkwardly touching, not mechanical moves. You deserve someone who will pay attention to the rhythm in your breath, to every slight movement of your body, to every sound. You deserve that moment of surrender, when you finally agree to lose your self completely into somebody else, even for a moment.

You deserve to be felt and seen and discovered.

You deserve a love like that.

And so do I.