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'Then she got off at Bank and our love ended': The ten stages of falling for a stranger on public transport

IF only she had looked up from her phone, you would be engaged and choosing names for your first four children. This is how your Central line love slipped away: 

Stage one: The glance

You spot her across the carriage, an alluring silhouette with gorgeous hair, someone new and exciting who’s not blocked you or unmatched on Bumble. No ring. A promising start.

Stage two: The smile

She’s smiling slightly. This is kismet: Dante and Beatrice, Carrie and Boris, Molly-Mae and Tommy. You’re confident it’s not because she’s looking at photos of cats in trucker hats.

Stage three: The inner monologue

You must approach her, but how to do it without ending up the subject of a viral TikTok about Tube creeps? Perhaps you should rehearse different lines while not realising you’re mumbling them oddly until you catch your reflection doing so? Shit.

Stage four: Eye contact

She looks up and sees you staring. You panic, break off and focus on an ad about erectile dysfunction.Your gaze must remain fixed on it so you don’t seem a pervert, but this is also not helping.

Stage five: Call to action

What if she gets off before you? Must you follow? Love hangs in the balance but so does your job if you get off at Mile End. Also, if you follow her and she doesn’t notice you are now a stalker.

Stage six: Montage

In your head, you’ve introduced yourself. You’ve dated, you’ve kissed, you’re married, you have two cats and an expresso machine, you still have a very healthy sex life, and now you can’t stand up because you’ve got a stiffy.

Stage seven: Your chance

She’s shifted in her seat, laughing at a meme. This means she wants you to talk to her. If only you weren’t frozen in place by fear, desire, convention and not wanting to lose your seat.

Stage eight: Desperation

Your future wife is gathering her bags. You gesture, with your eyes, for her to remove the earbuds currently cock-blocking you but she doesn’t notice.

Stage nine: Goodbye

She stands and walks away out of your life forever. You cling to your backpack like a life raft. Will she be back tomorrow? Do they still do Rush Hour Crush in the Metro?

Stage ten: Mourning

It’s over. You watch her disappear into the crowds. She’ll never know she was The One and you’re now doomed to replay this 45-second encounter in slow motion for the rest of your life. Oh, this is your station, might get a croissant.

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Turn down, accept then cancel, or ghost: what's your RSVP style?

AN invitation has arrived, and of course you have no intention of going. But how best to do so without offending the host who unreasonably expects your presence? Try these: 

Turn it down

The cleanest strategy for handling invites is also the most challenging. Going against every instinct to embrace your anti-social nature with a swift ‘F**k no’ is tough, so ingrained is pretending people are pleasurable to spend time with. It does eliminate uncertainty over whether you’re a fun or available person, helpful in the face of future invites.

Accept, then cancel

Allows you to experience for a moment the feeling of being a normal sociable person who wants to ‘hang out’ while not actually doing it. It’s most convincing to leave making your excuses to a week before the event while bemoaning the other commitment that has cropped up ‘out of nowhere’ and is ‘truly gutting’.

Ghost

May require moving house, changing jobs, or going no-contact with family, but worth it if you struggle communication, confrontation and the rigmarole of basic human courtesy. A straightforward blanking allows you to continue as if an invite never arrived, safe in the knowledge that the host will eventually give up trying.

Turn it down then accept

Reverse the established norm to give your host a rousing rollercoaster of emotion, then cancel again, then accept again, and before long they’ll be ignoring your texts. Quite a turnaround.

Refuse to commit

Ideal for those who want to give their prospective host the most anxiety possible, this option suspends your host in a quantum state of indecision, waiting for you to sync diaries, taking hopes you can make it at face value, eager to see if fictional competing engagements pan out. Eventually text ‘sorry, can’t make it’ an hour after the event begins.

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