What was wrong with him?!

A year ago, I dated a man for about five weeks. While that was a very short time, those dates affected me so deeply that even now, a year later, I still struggle to comprehend what happened.

I’m in my mid-thirties and have been dating since I was fifteen. I’ve been through it all—terrible dates where both people realized within half an hour that there was no connection, overly sexual ones where the man tried to get me into bed immediately, and charming ones who disappeared right after sex. I’m not naïve. But with this man, something was different—something was truly off.

Within the first few messages after matching, I asked what he was looking for. I said I wanted to date seriously but, of course, preferred to get to know someone first. He replied, “You seem like an interesting person to get to know, but I’m doubting something. Your profile says you love going to concerts, and I don’t like concerts because I have hearing damage.”

Looking back, I realize that was a test—to see whether I would start accommodating him right away. At the time, I thought it was simply an odd comment. I replied that we didn’t need to share every hobby and could easily find things to enjoy together that didn’t involve loud music. I even felt sorry for him, assuming that having hearing damage must be difficult. I was far too empathetic.

We talked for about a week and a half, and in hindsight, the conversations were strange. But I was dealing with a previous toxic relationship and family issues—a parent recovering from chemotherapy—which clouded my judgment. I wasn’t in a good place to recognize what was healthy or not. I saw the match as something positive during a difficult time. In truth, I wasn’t ready to date—not because I couldn’t connect, but because I wasn’t fully present. I was simply trying to cope with everything that had happened.

During our chats, we talked almost constantly. It felt like one of those online relationships people formed during COVID—talking all day, every day, even though you couldn’t meet. I had offered to meet earlier, but there was always a reason it couldn’t happen. Then, just before we finally planned to meet, he told me his grandmother had died. To this day, I suspect that wasn’t true.

I told him that if he wasn’t up for meeting, I’d completely understand. I wouldn’t want to go on a date while grieving either. But instead of postponing, he insisted on continuing as planned. The day before, he mentioned that things were moving too fast—that we were texting too much. I agreed that we could slow down. Yet the next day, he resumed messaging me constantly, as if nothing had changed. It was confusing.

He later sent me an essay he’d written—he was a journalist—and asked for feedback. I told him it was well written but that its structure could use some improvement. Since I work in education, I gave him a few constructive tips. He didn’t respond afterward, and I’m fairly sure I offended him without meaning to.

When the day of the date arrived, I was half an hour late because of a train issue. (I live in Europe, where trains are our main mode of transport.) I called to explain and told him that if waiting was a problem, he didn’t have to stay. I didn’t want him standing in the rain or wasting his time. He said it wasn’t an issue.

We had decided to meet because we seemed to have a lot in common—music, movies, career paths, and similar interests in general. We both appeared to be introverted but still valued meaningful connections—or so I thought.

Because of past safety concerns, I asked if he could come to my town for the first date. We lived about an hour and a half apart by train. His reaction surprised me. Most men I’d dated had no problem traveling for a first meeting. When they did, I usually offered to pay for drinks or something small to acknowledge the effort. I wasn’t looking for free meals or handouts; I have a stable career and earn my own money.

Instead of agreeing, he complained. He said the trip was too far and asked why he had to travel when I could come to him. I explained that I didn’t feel safe doing that, as we hadn’t met before. Eventually, we compromised and chose a city halfway between us. I didn’t love the arrangement, but I didn’t want to seem entitled, so I agreed.

And that’s how I found myself on that train, running late, wondering if this strange start was already telling me something important.

When we finally met, I was shocked. He looked at least ten years older than his photos. He had a YouTube channel that he occasionally posted on, and although his last video was only seven months old, he looked as if he’d aged five years since then. He smelled of sweat, and his teeth were far more yellow than in his pictures. He was thin to the point of appearing unhealthy. My mind raced: had he catfished me? Was he sick? Addicted to something? Or just worn out from grief? And if he truly was grieving, why was he even here?

I greeted him and asked if I could give him a cheek kiss. He immediately turned away, saying it was going too fast. I told him honestly, “If you’re not interested or don’t feel a connection, we can just end it here. No problem. I’ll stay and enjoy my dinner.” We were meeting in a restaurant I knew well, in my old neighborhood, and I had chosen it partly for that reason.

He said it was fine, that he just needed more time. I felt uneasy but decided to stay. I had been looking forward to that meal anyway—the restaurant had dishes I’d missed for a long time.

Then, suddenly, his behavior changed. He began flirting very openly, even telling the waitress, “I’m sorry, I haven’t ordered yet because I was too busy looking into her eyes.” It was bizarre. Within minutes, he went from distant and disinterested to overly flirtatious. It was disorienting.

As the evening went on, he told me strange, unsettling stories. He claimed a colleague had betrayed him and spread lies about him. The way he described it didn’t add up—it sounded like paranoia. He even said he felt people were watching him. I started wondering if he was mentally unwell but tried to be understanding, thinking maybe he was just under stress after his grandmother’s death. I kept making excuses for him.

He went on about the colleague who had betrayed him. I mentioned that I hated betrayal and told him about an ex who had promised a monogamous relationship but later admitted to seeing other people. I said that kind of dishonesty was the worst form of betrayal for me.

Then, out of nowhere, he started crying—actually crying—and confessed that he still had another date planned because “things were going too well” on Bumble. I was stunned and angry. We hadn’t even kissed yet, so technically he wasn’t doing anything wrong, but it still felt disrespectful. I told him clearly that I didn’t want to see someone who was actively dating others, and that if we ever did kiss, I’d expect exclusivity.

He kept crying, apologizing, and saying he didn’t want to lose me. I found myself consoling him even though he was the one behaving badly. Then, abruptly, he looked at me and said, “I want to kiss you now.” The whole situation was surreal.

I kissed him back because he leaned in first, and he kept kissing me—again and again—for at least half an hour. I held him, and he held me, until I finally said that we should either go to his place or mine. I wasn’t comfortable making out in public for so long. He refused, saying, “No, no, I’m not ready for that.”

It was confusing. He had been kissing me for nearly an hour, clearly wanting intimacy, yet refused to take things further. Normally, I don’t even kiss on a first date, let alone sleep with someone. But the combination of constant messaging and his sudden emotional intensity made it feel as if we were already in a relationship.

Afterward, I told him, “You’ve kissed me now, so I expect you not to see that other girl again.” He promised, “No, no, I won’t.”

But once I got home, he didn’t message me until the next morning. I thought that was rude, especially after spending the last few hours kissing and holding each other. When he finally texted, he said that while he really liked me and thought I was sweet, he still wanted to date other people and not focus too quickly on the first person he liked.

That confused me. He’d told me he had been single for three years—was I really the first woman he’d liked in all that time? Wouldn’t he have dated others before me? He also claimed that many women had expected him to be their “savior,” but that he needed time to understand his feelings.

I know I can be an intense person who catches feelings quickly, so I tried to rationalize it. Maybe he was right; maybe we shouldn’t rush things. But something about it felt deeply uneasy.

We kept chatting for another week, and then I asked if he would come to my town this time. He ignored the question and later said he was “consulting in his town,” implying I’d have to travel there instead. It was strange—he knew I didn’t feel safe doing that, yet he kept pushing for it.

When I finally agreed and went there, it turned out he had planned nothing. He had simply downloaded a cheap CityWalk app and called that our “plan.” I had organized a restaurant on our first date and paid my half, as did he. But this time, he hadn’t even bothered to prepare anything.

Luckily, I knew a good restaurant in his town, so I said, “Well, I’m going there for dinner afterward. If you’d like to join, you can.” I go out for dinner often and genuinely enjoy it. I even made a reservation for later that night, knowing I’d be hungry. I wasn’t about to travel an hour and a half by train and skip dinner.

So we did the pointless city walk. He tried to kiss me a few times in the street, and I told him, “If you want to kiss me, let’s go inside. I’m not a teenager making out in public.” Then he suddenly pulled back again, saying, “It’s still too soon. I don’t know you well enough.” Meanwhile, it was cold, raining, and awkward.

When I insisted we head to dinner, things grew even stranger. During the first date, he hadn’t offered to pay for me—which was fine, I prefer splitting bills—but this time, when the check came, he said, “Oh, I don’t have any money.” I told him calmly, “Well, I’ve already paid my half. I’m not paying for a guy who isn’t my boyfriend and keeps playing games.”

Suddenly, he “found” money in his savings account. It wasn’t even a large amount—around fifty euros each for a three-course meal, perfectly normal for a dinner out. And he had a good job, so it made no sense that he would pretend he couldn’t pay. It was embarrassing and tense.

After dinner, we took the train to the station. I told him casually, “I’ll miss you,” just as a polite, affectionate goodbye. He looked at me and said flatly, “I need to think about whether I want to see you again.”

I was done. I stood up, said goodbye, and left. He didn’t even ask if I got home safely.

The next day, nearly twenty-four hours later, he sent me a long message—four paragraphs—saying he wasn’t “convinced” by me. He claimed he often dumped women after the first date because he never really felt a connection.

It was such a bizarre explanation. If he hadn’t felt anything, why did he go on a second date? Why did he spend hours kissing me and texting me nonstop for weeks? Why put in all that time and effort just to declare indifference afterward?

Friends told me, “He’s just not that into you.” But that didn’t make sense either. If he truly wasn’t interested, why keep me around? Why waste so much energy? Especially after saying he had other dates. I even told him, “If you sleep with that other girl, just cancel me.” He didn’t cancel. So who knows if she ever even existed.