| Drakee | Дата: Пятница, Вчера, 21:47 | Сообщение # 1 | | Рядовой Группа: Пользователи Сообщений: 21 Статус: Offline | Moving to a new city is weird. You spend the first week running on adrenaline, unpacking boxes, and pretending you know how the bus system works. Then, the second week hits, and the silence in your apartment gets loud.
That’s where I was last month. I had just moved to this city, and my only friend was a cactus I bought at the supermarket. I wanted to meet people, but the idea of going to a bar alone terrified me. So, I did what everyone does: I downloaded the usual apps.
It was a disaster. It felt like an endless catalog of people hiking or holding fish. The conversations were even worse. "Hey." "Sup." "Hru." It felt like I was interviewing for a job I didn't want. I wasn't looking for a soulmate; I was just looking for someone who could speak in complete sentences.
I decided to switch tactics. I wanted a platform that focused a bit more on personality and a little less on filters. I found https://feelflame.com/ while searching for communities that valued actual conversation. It felt different immediately—less frantic, more grounded. I created a profile, skipped the glamour shots, and just wrote about the things I actually care about: bad sci-fi movies and hunting for old vinyl records.
That’s when I saw his profile.
His name was Elias. He didn't have a shirtless mirror selfie. Instead, his bio had one very specific sentence: "I spend my weekends looking for the 1976 pressing of *Ryo Fukui's Scenery* with the misprinted liner notes."
I stopped scrolling. I actually laughed. It wasn't a generic "I love music." It was a tiny, obsessive detail that only a fellow nerd would understand.
I didn't send a "Hi." I messaged him: "The one where they spelled 'piano' wrong on the back cover?"
He replied four minutes later. "You know it? I’ve been looking for it for three years."
That one detail bypassed all the awkward small talk. We didn't have to ask "what do you do for work" or "what are you looking for." We just argued about jazz and analog warmth for two hours. The rhythm of the conversation was effortless.
We met for coffee two days later. I was nervous. I almost tripped walking into the cafe because I was trying to look cool. When I sat down, I realized I had spilled a tiny drop of toothpaste on my shirt earlier that morning. I pointed it out immediately, and he laughed, showing me a coffee stain on his own sleeve.
There were no fireworks. The sky didn't open up. It was just... comfortable. We drank coffee, walked to a nearby record shop, and dug through crates of dusty albums.
We aren't planning a wedding. We aren't promising each other forever. But for the first time in this new city, I didn't feel like a tourist. I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be, talking to someone who understood my specific brand of weird. Sometimes, you don't need magic. You just need someone who notices the same typos you do. | | | | |
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