Dumb, Dumber, and in Love

If there was a support group for people who fall for all the wrong ones, Tara would be the founding president. Her dating history included a guy who ghosted her after she paid his Wi-Fi bill, a barista who only dated her for employee discounts, and a poet who broke up with her in a haiku.

Still, Tara believed in love. Not smart love, but love-love. The messy, embarrassing kind that made you trip over your own words and ignore red flags like they were carnival decorations.

Enter Zayn—a man so bad at relationships he once texted "happy birthday" to his ex… on Valentine’s Day. He lived with three roommates, had a full-time job losing socks in the laundry, and believed that “emotional intelligence” was an app.

Their paths crossed at a speed-dating event neither of them wanted to attend. Tara was dragged there by her aggressively optimistic roommate; Zayn came for the free mini pizzas.

They met at Table 5.

"Hi, I'm Tara," she said, smiling nervously.

Zayn blinked. "You're really pretty. Wait—that's not a line. I mean, it is, but it's not a line-line, y’know?"

Tara laughed, too hard. "Thanks! You're cute too. Like, messy-hair, didn't-really-try cute."

That was their entire five-minute exchange. And somehow—it worked.


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Date One:
Zayn took Tara to a taco place where the waitress kept winking at him. Tara pretended not to notice, even when Zayn gave her a $5 tip and said, “She seems nice.”

Date Two:
They went bowling. Tara wore heels because she thought it was cute, twisted her ankle, and Zayn offered her frozen peas in a sock as an ice pack. A sock. Not clean.

Still, she said yes when he asked for Date Three.


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Their love grew in the weirdest of ways.

He brought her gas station flowers; she loved them more than a fancy bouquet.
She cooked him instant noodles and called it "experimental cuisine"; he ate every bite like it was a Michelin-star dish.
They got lost on the subway. Twice. On the same trip.

They argued about pointless things. Like whether cereal was a soup. Or if penguins had knees. Once, Zayn texted “I miss you” to Tara’s number—but accidentally sent it to his dentist.

They weren’t smart about love.

Tara ignored red flags like Zayn forgetting her favorite color three times.
Zayn ignored his fear of commitment like it was an overdue library book.

But they felt things. Loudly. Honestly. Clumsily.


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One night, three months in, after a disaster double-date where Tara accidentally called Zayn “Kyle” (an ex), and Zayn asked her best friend if she wanted to "go halfsies on the nachos," they found themselves walking home in silence.

Finally, Zayn blurted, “Are we just... dumb together?”

Tara stopped. “Like, emotionally or just in general?”

“Both, probably.”

They looked at each other, then burst out laughing—laughing so hard they had to sit down on the curb, surrounded by the glow of streetlights and takeout smells.

Tara wiped a tear. “We are so bad at this.”

Zayn nodded. “Yeah. But I like being bad at it with you.”


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They didn’t have a perfect relationship.
There were missed texts, mixed signals, forgotten anniversaries, and poorly timed jokes.
They weren’t Instagram-couple cute. They weren’t aspirational. They were real. And maybe a little ridiculous.

But when Tara got the flu, Zayn made her soup from scratch (kind of—it was 90% hot water and canned chicken).
And when Zayn lost his job, Tara showed up with a resume template and a pack of cupcakes labeled “You’ll bounce back. But first: sugar.”

They stayed.

Not because it was easy. But because no one else would laugh at your bad jokes, cry at your dumb fears, and still hold your hand like it was the most important job in the world.


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Years later, when people asked them how they met, they’d glance at each other and say, in unison:
“Poor judgment. But great timing.”

Because love, in the end, didn’t need to be clever. It just needed two people foolish enough to keep trying.