Primalsoup

A Preface

Some stories are love stories.
Some are almosts.
These are the other kind.

This is a recurring series about the people I didn’t end up with, not just because they weren’t right for me, but sometimes because I wasn’t right for them. Too talkative. Too quiet. Too opinionated. Not opinionated enough. Not religious enough. Not thin enough. Not whatever it was they thought a girl should be.

Some didn’t call back.
Some I never replied to.
Some fizzled before they began.
And some, I think we both knew, would never survive a second cup of filter coffee.

There are no happy endings here.
Also no tragic ones. Just quiet misfires, polite rejections, delayed realisations, and the deeply Indian art of not quite falling in love.

This is not Modern Love.
This is not a quest.
This is not “the one who got away.”

It’s just a record of near-matches and minor entanglements.
Of dates that ended with handshakes. Of family introductions that led nowhere. Of people I remember sometimes, not because they mattered, but because they almost did.

This is How I Did Not Meet Your Father, in which I mine my non-existent love life for content.
Gently.
And with context.

First up: The Boy Who Sang, coming soon.