Once upon a time, relationships were about deep, meaningful conversations—getting to know each other’s dreams, fears, and quirks. But fast forward to the Gen Z era, and things have taken a curious turn.

Tunde and Cassandra met on a dating app, of course, because no one really meets at bookstores anymore. Their first date was a carefully curated event at the most Instagrammable café in town, complete with neon signs and artsy lattes. As they sat down, the first thing they both did was whip out their phones, not to check the time, but to snap pictures of their cappuccinos.

“Gotta get this for the Gram,” Cassandra said, adjusting the lighting on her phone. Tunde nodded in agreement, taking a Boomerang of the foam swirling in his cup. It was only when the barista gave them a side-eye that they realized they hadn’t actually spoken to each other yet.

When the phones finally went down, the conversation started…sort of. It was mostly small talk about the latest TikTok trends, which influencer got canceled last week, and how many followers they each had.

The conversation quickly spiraled into a heated debate over who reigned supreme in the TikTok couple scene. “I mean, Ojubaby and Lumber have the best chemistry,” insisted Tunde, while Cassandra passionately countered, “Peller and Jarvis bring a whole new level of creativity to their skits!”

However, Tunde, in an attempt to sound deep, tried to change the topic, as he asked, “So, what’s your sign?”

“Scorpio,” Cassandra answered with a smirk. “But, like, not the toxic kind.” They both laughed, though neither knew what they were really laughing at. The conversation drifted on, but somehow never touched on anything of real substance.

No talk of dreams. No talk of passions. No talk of where they saw themselves in five years, except maybe as TikTok-famous influencers. At one point, Cassandra asked, “Do you ever, like, feel emotionally drained after a whole day of doom-scrolling?”

Tunde stared blankly for a second, then nodded. “Totally,” he replied, though he had no idea what “doom-scrolling” really meant.

As the date dragged on, the lack of emotional intelligence between them became more apparent. They couldn’t talk about anything remotely vulnerable without turning it into a meme or brushing it off with a quick, “LOL, same.” It was like they were allergic to real feelings—afraid that if they showed too much depth, they would lose the game of who-could-be-cooler.

When they parted ways, Cassandra checked her phone, not for a thoughtful follow-up message, but to make sure the pictures they took were properly uploaded with the right captions and hashtags. After all, what was the point of a date if you didn’t show it off on social media?

The real tragedy? Their relationship was like their Instagram feed—filtered, curated, and polished on the surface, but with no real depth. They never talked about their dreams, their fears, or what truly made them tick. The whole thing felt like a performance, with neither willing to break character.

And that’s the future of relationships in the digital age: a performance, where it’s easier to snap a picture than it is to talk about your insecurities. Easier to send a meme than to admit you’re feeling lonely. Love, once an exploration of each other’s souls, has now become a race for the best filter and the wittiest caption.

At the end of the day, Tunde and Cassandra both went home alone. But hey, at least they got a couple hundred likes.