I’ll never forget when I met one of my exes, whom my friends and I now call the “love bomber”—among many other less flattering names.

Our first date had that fairytale-like ambiance. Dimly lit restaurant. Quiet yet deep discussions about art and spirituality. Shared, delicious food. Fancy cocktails.

He walked me to my car after hours of losing ourselves in conversation, and I—much like Cinderella and her neglected slipper—forgot to grab my leftover pizza from him as I nervously hopped into my car to avoid the awkward post-date anxiety.

Before I even arrived home, I’d already received a message from him saying he had a great time. It was far too good to be true for a Hinge date, but I was on cloud 9. And from what it seemed, he was, too.

Following that magical night, he and I spoke all

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