Kate Didd

There are weekends that feel ordinary, and then there are weekends where the universe cracks its knuckles, leans over the balcony of fate, and whispers:

“Cue her entrance.”

This was one of those weekends.

Three dates. Three energies. Three separate realities orbiting around me like planets deciding whether they’d like to be moons, comets, or entire galaxies in my story.

And somehow, between the laughter, the eye contact, the cinnamon-apple cronut, and the downpour that soaked the pavement outside a fancy restaurant, I found myself remembering that my life is, in fact, a romcom.

Date One: The Tax-Bracket Surprise & The Man Who Opens Every Door

From the second I stepped into that little upscale restaurant, the kind with small plates arranged like modern art, I felt myself soften. The lighting was dim but warm, the kind that makes your skin look like it’s been moisturized with moonlight. He stood up when I approached the table, smiling with eyes that actually tracked my presence, not my body.

And then…

my phone disappeared.

Not literally.

But I placed it in my purse and didn’t feel the gravitational pull to check it, not once.

That’s how I knew something was different.

Every time he spoke, he looked directly into my eyes, not scanning the room, not checking for exits or distractions. Just, fully present. Fully there.

It made the conversation feel like a slow pour.

Sure, I stumbled around the usual landmines, how to talk about my life without sounding like I survived a gremlin apocalypse and now simply tolerate men like an exhausted folkloric hero. But here’s the thing: I didn’t feel rushed. His eyes softened every time I hesitated, like he was genuinely listening, not waiting for his turn to talk.

Then came the moment:

I threw out the question about financially supporting eight kids between us, fully expecting a laugh, a cough, a deflection, something.

Instead, he paused.

Held my gaze.

Really thought about it.

And said, “Yeah… shouldn’t be a problem.”

I swear the tablecloth fluttered like the wind just exhaled.

When we finally stepped outside, the sky had opened up. Rain everywhere, cinematic, dramatic, the kind that demands someone make a grand gesture. And he did.

He held the door.

Walked me to his car.

Opened it gently, hand on the frame like he was ushering a queen into her carriage.

Drove me to my car.

Walked around.

Opened my door for me again.

Not a single moment without intention.

Not a single moment where he wasn’t watching me with that steady, certain eye contact that told me he knew exactly what he was doing.

By the time I drove away, the windows fogged with rain and possibility, I already knew:

Week two is going to be something else.

Date Two: The Beautiful Soul & The Cronut That Turned Time Slow

The next morning, I walked into a coffee shop looking “just thrown together”which, for me, still means fitted, intentional, wealthy-coded energy. No T-shirts. No slouching. No dimming of frequency.

He turned when I entered, and there was this flicker in his expression, soft recognition mixed with curiosity. His eyes stayed on me like a warm spotlight, following me all the way from the doorway to the table. And I swear the room changed temperature.

What I loved most?

His ability to stay present.

I didn’t see his phone, not once.

And I didn’t feel mine, even though it was tucked in my bag, somewhere beneath the layers of my own ambition.

We talked for hours, three, to be exact.

Conversations that trail off into laughter.

Moments where our eyes meet mid-sentence and linger just a second too long.

Small pauses where the silence isn’t awkward, it’s full.

And then we split a cinnamon-apple cronut, the kind of small act that feels intimate without crossing any lines. He slid it across the table with this soft smile, like sharing food was a cultural love language. And in that simple gesture, something warm settled in my chest.

He told me about his life, coming to the U.S., starting over, building wealth not out of ego but out of devotion to the people he loves. His eyes glowed when he talked about his kids. Mine softened when I realized how deeply he values family.

And then came his genius loophole:

I’m on a zero-touch journey.

He knows this.

He respects this.

So what does he do?

Invites me salsa dancing.

Because technically, technically, it’s dancing, not touching.

And that twinkle in his eye when he said it?

Lord.

He knew exactly what he was doing, and honestly, I adore that for me.

Date Three: The Comfortable Past Wrapped in a Present I’ve Outgrown

The final date was that afternoon, another coffee shop, completely different vibe. More earthy. More quiet. More familiar.

And that was the problem.

From the moment I sat down, I felt it, the gravitational pull of comfort. The version of me that used to settle. The part of me that worked too hard, carried too much, and called it love.

He was sweet.

Soft-spoken.

Easy to talk to.

We made eye contact easily, naturally, the way you do with someone who feels safe but not necessarily expansive. And I stayed engaged, phone tucked away, mind present, because that’s who I am. I can speak to anyone. I can make anyone feel seen.

But as he talked about his life, I realized his world is one I’ve already lived in.

One I fought tooth and nail to grow out of.

One that shaped me…

but can’t hold me anymore.

And though the conversation was lovely, the atmosphere comfortable, the eye contact steady, my future felt outside those walls, not inside them.

I want a big life.

A luxurious life.

A life that stretches me into the fullest version of myself.

And comfort is no longer my compass.

It’s not that I don’t want him around.

It’s that I’m no longer willing to make my life harder for the sake of someone else’s journey. And I need people who love me to understand that shift.

The Real Plot Twist of the Weekend

Maybe one day I’ll find the kind of happiness that settles in my chest with ease.

Maybe one day I’ll look across a table and know: Oh. It’s you.

But until then?

I’m dating out of my comfort zone.

I’m asking for the life I actually want.

I’m choosing luxury, not material luxury, but emotional luxury.

Presence.

Effort.

Door-opening.

Cronut-sharing.

Salsa-dancing loophole energy.

I’m expensive, energetically, emotionally, spiritually and there is nothing wrong with that.

In fact…

I am finally priced correctly.

And the right man will look me in the eyes, smile, and pay full price without hesitation.