Falling For The Faker

Claire stared at her phone, dreading the incoming message that she knew would say: 
“Had a great time tonight. Let’s be friends.” 

Or worse—nothing at all. 

The date had been fine. Generic. Another guy who rattled off his resume before asking her what brand of toothpaste she used. And when she told him she was a content manager at a nonprofit, he said, “Aw, that’s cute.” 

She slammed her phone face-down onto her pillow and groaned. 
“I feel like a damn contestant on Love Island, except there’s no prize and no one’s attracted to me,” she said aloud to no one. 

Welcome to online dating at 30. Swipe fatigue. Polished profiles. Ghosts. Interview-style dinners. And the haunting echo of a six-year relationship she thought would last forever. 

She missed the messiness of college hookups, the awkward magic of meeting someone in person. Now it all felt… robotic. Strategic. She was a product being pitched. Not a person being loved. 

And then, one random Thursday night, she posted a short TikTok: 

“Dating in your 30s is just filling out Google Forms with your face on. Hobbies? Check. Do I cook? Check. Trauma history? Swipe left if yes. I’m exhausted.” 

It was a vent. A joke. She didn’t expect it to hit 80K views. 

She especially didn’t expect him. 

The DM came in the next morning. 

@realhumanadvice: 

“Your video was hilarious. And painfully accurate. I feel like people forget dating is supposed to feel like connection, not cross-examination. Anyway—hope you find someone who doesn’t ask for your credit score on date one.” 

His handle made her smirk. Real Human Advice. 

They started chatting. 

His name was Nate. He said he worked in the “behavioral coaching” field—helping people be more confident in relationships. But mostly, they talked like friends. He asked what music she listened to when she cried. She said Bon Iver. He laughed and sent her a playlist titled “songs to break your ribs to.” 

He didn’t ask the job-debt-fitness questions. He asked about her laugh. What made her belly-laugh. What her worst date ever was. What she’d eat as a last meal. Slowly, their chats bled into voice notes. Then calls. Then late-night video sessions with Netflix muted in the background. 

Claire felt something shift. 
This wasn’t a “match.” This was easy. Warm. Real. 

And oddly… private. 
He never posted pictures. Avoided tagging. He said he’d been “burned before.” Claire respected that. God knows she didn’t want to be out there again either. 

But something always felt just a little off. 

Like she was the only one showing her cards. 

One night, after their call ended, she went to tag him in a silly dating meme—and paused. 

His profile was gone. 

Completely wiped. 

Not disabled. Not private. 

Deleted. 

A pit formed in her stomach. 

She Googled his name: “Nate dating coach confidence trainer New York.” 

The first result? 

“Nate Wolfe, Founder of REAL HUMAN ADVICE—Online Dating Coach for Men.” 

Her blood turned to ice. 

The next result? 

“How I Help Men Win the Modern Dating Game—With Real Text Examples from Real Women.” 

She clicked. Scrolled. 

And there she was. 

A screenshot of her TikTok. Her words. Her caption. 
And beneath it? A breakdown of her “vulnerability cues,” “open loop humor,” and “emotional soft entry point.” 

He had used her content. Their chats. Her words. 

For teaching. 

She wanted to scream. Or vomit. Or both. 

But instead, she texted him. 

Claire: 

Hey. Are you using our convos in your course? 

He didn’t reply for three hours. 

When he finally did, it wasn’t defensive. 

Nate: 

I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I swear. I didn’t plan it like this. I just— 
started liking you too much, and it got messy. I didn’t know how to say it. 
I’m sorry.  

Claire didn’t block him. 

Not immediately. 

She sat with it. Let it rot in her stomach. The betrayal. The objectification. 

She hadn’t just been ghosted or friend-zoned. She’d been studied. Her vulnerability analyzed like an equation. 

But what hurt more was that she had felt safe. And worse—he had made her feel safe. 

She called her best friend, Leila. 

“He liked me, Leila. And he still used me.” 

Leila was quiet for a second. “Do you think the connection was fake?” 

“I don’t know,” Claire whispered. “Maybe not. But it doesn’t matter. It wasn’t just for me. I was content.” 

She deleted the app. 

Took time off dating. 

And for the first time in months, let herself grieve her past relationship—something she had skipped over in her rush to find the next thing. 

She cried over old voicemails. Burned the concert ticket stubs she’d saved. Journaled about the way her ex used to trace his thumb over her collarbone when he thought she was asleep. 

It was healing. 

Raw. 

Real. 

She stopped looking outward and started choosing herself. 

A few months later, Claire got an email. 

Subject: I still think you’re the best thing I never deserved. 

It was from Nate. 

He said he’d shut down the course. That he was in therapy. That he’d been trying to build something “clean” out of something toxic. 

He didn’t ask for forgiveness. 
He just wanted her to know he’d learned from her. 

Claire didn’t reply. 

Instead, she closed her laptop, brewed some tea, and took herself to the bookstore. Alone. 

She sat by the window with a new book and watched the city move past. No dating apps. No algorithms. Just the soft comfort of her own company. 

And in that quiet, she smiled. 

Because she wasn’t someone’s case study. 

She wasn’t a product. 

She wasn’t even a “prize.” 

She was a whole damn person. 

And for the first time in a long while… 
That was enough. 

🧠 Comment Question: 

Have you ever felt like dating today is more of a performance than a connection? What would you do if you found out someone was using your emotions for “research”.