I’m Not a Gift, but I Want a Gift

The screen washed her face in blue light. Marta scrolled through profiles like trading cards: the awkward ones—swipe left; the loudmouths with barroom grins—swipe left; the “I like sunsets and the sea” types—swipe left.

Every now and then she paused on a profile: silver hair, a loosened tie, hands that seemed to know what to hold and what to let go. There was something noble there, almost elegant in its weariness. She admired it for a second, then flicked her finger. She wasn’t looking for a mirror. She wanted emotions.

The vibration came like a knock at the door. Someone noticed you.

She opened. The man in the photo looked polished with a watchmaker’s patience, his smile sharp, his shoulders broad but not boastful. Hair in place, as if the wind obeyed him. But the eyes were the hook: calm confidence, the kind that conquers without a word.

Her thumb hesitated for a heartbeat, then slid right. Match.

Private message:

“Hi. Nice to meet you. Is that your real name on the profile?”

Simple. Almost offensive in its simplicity. But with that face, it worked.

Five minutes later, another match. Was this her lucky night? Another man: different style, different magnetism, but the same effect—he stirred something inside her that hadn’t moved in a long time. More audacious in his poses, a bicep peeking out, lips slightly parted as if already expecting a kiss.

“You’ve walked into my gray day like a ray of sunshine.”

Marta found herself chatting with both. With the first—Adrian: short questions, polished, precise. With the second—Stefano: laughter, parentheses, a subtle irony that let the fatigue out of her chest. Two different instruments playing the same melody: I choose you.

Marta’s days had the rhythm of a city that runs. Wake at six-thirty, quick shower, a stroke of eyeliner, coffee bubbling like an old friend. Office, emails that arrive sideways, meetings that steal oxygen; then her son, homework, dishes shining out of duty. But lately, something had changed. Every so often, a message would land that made her heart race, her smile bloom from nothing, her burdens dissolve. With the phone in her hand, Marta, at last, became the protagonist.

After two perfect weeks, Stefano vanished. Conversation deleted, profile gone. No explanation. No goodbye. A puppet folding into the magician’s hat.

Marta was left with an empty air, but also with a clarity that felt like relief. Maybe fate had cleared the stage to leave the lead actor in the spotlight. Adrian remained: divorced father, a child like hers; a betrayal-shaped wound parallel to her own, a thread in common.

“Good morning, Marta, I know you’ll be busy today. Don’t forget to eat well.”

“Good night, my dear. I can’t wait for tomorrow to give you another good morning.”

They weren’t new phrases. But the way they came was new. She felt desired again, courted, admired. His messages arrived as punctual as a Swiss train, carrying her out of her dull life.

The Shiny Corridor of Promises

Friday evening Marta treated herself to a trip to the big shopping mall. Floors polished like skating rinks, air-conditioning combing her thoughts, background music you’ll never remember.

She stepped into a boutique and tried on a midnight-blue dress that fell just above her knees. In the fitting room, the lights told a polite version of her body. She looked at herself in the mirror, and for a moment, she liked what she saw the way you like yourself when someone is watching.

Her phone buzzed. “Hi, my darling. What are you doing?”

“I’m at the mall. Just walking around.”

A pause. Then: “Did you remember my birthday? It’s in a few days! Are you, by chance, shopping for my gift? I’m curious to know what you’ll get me. Have you thought about a bracelet? An elegant watch would work too. Send me some pictures—we’ll pick it together.”

Marta was startled, thrown off balance by the message. After a moment, she wrote that maybe it was too soon for gifts, since they hadn’t even met in person.

“Yes, we haven’t met yet, but it doesn’t matter. With you, I feel things I haven’t felt in years. I know you’re the one for me, and sooner or later we’ll be together.”

The words warmed her, but left a small shadow where there had been light.

She paid for the dress, walked beneath the glass dome, watched people stream by with shopping bags like banners. A gift? she thought. Do I really have to buy him a gift? Sure, I could afford a bracelet or a watch. But something feels off.

The next day he returned to the subject. Graceful at first, then persistent. Then firm, with the metallic sound of something crooked.

“Darling, did you get me the present? Why not send me a photo?”

Marta tried to change the subject.

Two mornings later: “Sweetheart, I have good news! I took time off work. I’m organizing to come see you.”

Her heart did that ancient thing: wanting to believe.

Then came the sting: “I have a gift for you. Send me your address, I’ll ship it right away. I want it to arrive before I do.”

Marta froze. Not in traffic, not at work—inside. A snapshot, sharp and undeniable. If you’re coming, why ship a package? What sense does that make?

She typed: “That’s kind of you, but you really didn’t have to. Anyway, I’d rather get it in person. I’ll wait for your arrival.”

“No, my dear. I’ll send it priority mail. Give me your details: name, surname, address.”

Her head went blank. His words sounded sweet, but doubt began to snake in her chest. Without her reply, he pressed harder.

“Don’t you trust me? I feel really hurt. With you I’ve been more transparent than ever before.”

“Well, you know, I don’t know much about you. Why don’t you send me your details first? Maybe a photo of your ID, just to put my mind at ease.”

Silence fell. Half an hour later, a message arrived with a photo of a passport. Closed.

“See, my dear? I did what you wanted.”

“But it doesn’t show it’s yours. Can you take a picture of the inside?”

“No, I can’t. I’m deeply disappointed and offended by your behavior. I’m about to come see you, I wanted to give you a beautiful gift, and this is how you treat me?!”

“Fine, forget the passport. Call me on video, and we’ll talk.”

“No, I feel too hurt.”

Come to think of it, they had never video-called. He sent plenty of pictures: him at the bar with friends, him at the gym, him at work, him with his daughter. Even short videos, waving at the camera. But never a video call. He’d never asked for one, and Marta had been grateful—she didn’t like them. But now she wanted one, to kill the doubt burning in her head. He refused.

The Truth

That night Marta couldn’t close her eyes. She grabbed her phone and opened Google.

She dragged Adrian’s photos one by one: the white shirt, the dark coat, the morning run. The net spit back posters from an Asian movie five years earlier, red carpet shots with a name she’d never heard. A Chinese actor, little known abroad. The same smile, the same beard, the same eyes that the night before had taught her the alphabet of trust—but with another man’s name.

Her heartbeat changed pace. No longer gallop—march.

In one minute, everything tilted. The good-morning poems, stolen. The confidences, scripted. The child? Yes—but from a happy marriage.

She opened the chat. Reread the love lines, now sounding like wrinkled lines from a cheap script.

“Who are you?” she wrote.

The checkmarks stayed gray. Then blue.

“The one who loves you. Why do you want to ruin this?”

“Because I want to know where the truth ends and the lies begin. You’re not who you say you are. Who are you?”

Silence. Then one last attempt, like a door that won’t take the key:

“Why say that? Don’t destroy this. Send me your address, please. I’ll show you I really care.”

That lie cut deeper than a knife. Marta felt stupid. Ridiculous.

She typed nothing. Block contact.

The darkness that followed wasn’t just the absence of messages. It was a real space, heavy and measured. Marta ran a hand through her hair, gutted to the core. She felt wounded in her innermost self. How could she have trusted so easily?!

The Way Out of the Maze

The next day Marta went back to the app she hadn’t opened in a while. She began scrolling again. But now she knew those glossy macho profiles were just more “Adrians.” She deleted her profile, then the app itself. The feeling of being vulnerable, foolish, inadequate clung to her like smoke. She couldn’t bear it anymore.

Six months later, on a Friday, she left the office under a steel-gray sky. Her son was with his grandparents and the house would be empty. Marta had no desire to go home. So she stepped into a café under the arcades, its warm air pulling her inside. She ordered an aperitif and leaned back in a chair by the window, lost in thought.

A man, his voice warm, asked: “Mind if I sit here?” pointing to the empty seat. Marta nodded almost automatically, thinking he just needed the chair. But he sat down beside her.

They talked about the kind of nothing that opens doors: the smell of coffee when it rains, the movie from the night before, the weekend weather. She expected nothing anymore, worn out and disillusioned. So did he. They exchanged numbers without expectation. Said goodbye and returned to their own lives, each carrying the taste of a chance encounter that was quietly sweet.

When Marta stepped out of the café, the darkness was friendly, intimate. She pulled her coat tighter, thought of Stefano, who had vanished like a stage trick; thought of Adrian, who had never existed. And she smiled at a simple truth: life, off-screen, never promises perfection.

But if it looks you in the eye, at least it’s real.

Final Note

Marta’s story is far more common than it seems. Behind polished profiles and perfect promises, countless people fall into the same trap of loneliness dressed up as love.

Recently, I wrote an article on my blog called “The Uncomfortable Truth About Dating Sites”. If Marta’s story resonated with you, I invite you to read it—it might open your eyes before someone else tries to close them.

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