We were having the perfect first date – one text changed everything. Megan Wallace Published May 13, 2026 6:00am
I was on a first date and well into my third pint when I saw the text: ‘I imagine you’re at the airport by now, safe travels!’. I rolled my eyes. This was typical of my friend Abby*: She always expected everyone to arrive at the airport at least three hours before their flight took off. I knew I had plenty of time. But then I looked back at the numbers displayed on my cracked phone screen: 18:03. Oh dear. My plane was due to depart in just under an hour, meaning I had about 55 minutes to down the remnants of my Guinness, trek to Stansted from central London, get through security, and board my plane. Unless I could suddenly teleport, I was not going to make it. This first date was supposed to be just a quick drink, and now I’d ended up missing my flight. Then again – I really should have seen this coming.
I’d been chatting to Sam* on Tinder for several weeks, staying up late at night in my Edinburgh apartment to exchange thoughts on my recently finished MA thesis and my favourite films. They were a heady combination of interested and interesting: curious about my passions, but also sharing plenty of their own. Conversation was easy and, soon enough, we switched over to text. But when they asked me out, they suggested a drink at the Admiral Duncan for ‘queer history reasons’. I raised my eyebrows; the Admiral Duncan is, famously, a gay pub in London. ‘Maybe there’s an Edinburgh outpost I don’t know about,’ I wondered. Looking back over our Tinder conversations, we’d never made any mention of living in different cities – me in the Scottish capital, them in the English one – but when I clicked on their profile once more, my suspicions were confirmed: ‘Distance: 534km’.
I didn’t know why the app had got my coordinates so wrong, but regardless of the reason behind this geographical fluke, I was crestfallen: I hadn’t (digitally) clicked with someone like that in a long time. Naturally, our chats fizzled out once we realised there were hundreds of miles between us: any future, even a casual one, seemed unlikely. That was, until I received word that I had an in-person interview for a permanent role in a London office. It seemed a perfect opportunity to finally set something up with Sam in person: after all, if my interview was successful, I’d be based in London full-time. Booking a quick return flight was a fraction of the train cost; and so I found myself on a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it plane journey between Scotland and England, my stomach filled with butterflies from a heavy mix of interview jitters, romantic nerves, and mild turbulence.
A couple of hours later, I was leaving the interview and in high spirits. I’d nailed it, and I was looking forward to seeing Sam for our date – the first of what I hoped might be many. We’d agreed to keep our meeting spot at the Admiral Duncan. When I turned up, slightly late, I was pleased to see Sam waiting outside with two pints and a wide grin. We opened things up with a firm hug and immediately got stuck into chatting: about our lives, our work, our exes. The conversation just flowed. Soon enough, I was getting in a second round. Then it was their turn to get more drinks. And then, suddenly, there I was: shocked and startled, and more than a little disappointed I’d so royally messed up getting back to Scotland.
I scrolled the Ryanair app to find the cheapest departing flight for the next morning (annoyingly, it was at 6.30am) and inwardly rolled my eyes at my own disorganisation. Once I’d booked my replacement flight, I frantically began searching for any accommodation below £90: I’d already blown way too much cash on having to book another plane. However, noting the stress line which had sprung up between my eyebrows, Sam offered to let me stay at theirs, emphasising that there was zero expectation of anything physical: they just wanted to help me out. Weighing up my options, I realised this was the best I was going to get, so I should jump at it, even if I felt mortified at the concept of inconveniencing someone.
That evening, after another round or two, we got the bus back to Sam’s east London house share. We ate some quick pesto pasta and they laughed about their lack of cooking skills before lending me an oversized t-shirt to sleep in. With a choice between the communal sofa in the living room, or Sam’s bed, I opted for the latter and quickly fell asleep, though I suspect I kept Sam up with my snoring. The next morning, rousing myself at 4am, I was surprised when Sam got up too: making me a cup of instant coffee, and kissing me on the cheek. They even walked me to my bus stop and waved me off: I have a distinct memory of watching them, bathed in street lamp light, from the top deck of a bus. By 11am that same day, I was back in my flat in Edinburgh, and the whole encounter seemed like almost a dream – besides the dent it left in my bank account.
Several days later, I heard back from the job: they wanted me, and I’d start in a couple of weeks. A week or so after moving to London, I messaged Sam to see if they fancied meeting up again, but they told me they had just started dating someone else. It felt like a blow; but then I realised that, while I’d felt like it was a perfect date, they were simply being accommodating. One downside to the hospitality of the queer community is that you might think someone thinks you’re special when really they’re just being nice. I never texted Sam again, but sometimes I see them from afar at Pride events. It always makes me smile.
*Name has been changed
