LLDA or Long Live Dating Apps

One sultry evening, my one and only — dazzling, irreplaceable, and occasionally devious — wife came to me with a rather curious request.

“Husband,” she said (with that tone that’s equal parts mischief and mission brief), “you write all those stories of yours, right? Well then, write our story. From your point of view. I want to know what was going through that mysterious head of yours — what you thought, how you felt, how you reacted. Especially those key turning points: our first meeting, the decision to move in together, and, of course, your grand proposal — hand, heart, and all.”

Now, I don’t often take writing requests. I’m more of a “strike-when-the-lightning-hits” kind of storyteller. So naturally, this one threw me off — but it also piqued my curiosity.

Recalling the factual timeline of those events? Easy.
But digging up what I was thinking and feeling at the time? Now that’s a trickier beast.

Still… let’s give it a shot.

Orange Backpack as a Means of Seduction

Our first encounter happened thanks to... a dating app.
By that time, I’d already been on so many Tinder dates that they had started to feel like job interviews. I once watched an interview with Paul Rudd (you know, Ant-Man from The Avengers) where the host asked a brilliant question:
“Paul, you probably get the same questions over and over again in interviews. I’m sure you’ve got your go-to short answers by now. But tell me — do you still remember what your full answers used to sound like, or have the soundbites completely overwritten them?”
Can’t remember what Rudd said, but back then, I understood him perfectly: I’d retold my “About Me” story so many times, it felt rehearsed — like I’d become a well-oiled narrative machine.

So there I was, sinking into another hour at a coffee shop, sipping yet another filter brew, when my phone pinged. A notification — but not from Tinder. This time it was from Happn — another dating app, lesser-known around here, but with a fun twist. It shows you people you’ve physically crossed paths with (within about 250 meters). In Moscow, it served up some truly eccentric characters, including a feisty hyperrealist artist I still remember vividly.

Anyway, we arranged to meet — as casually as if we were scheduling a weekly project sync. I went back to my coffee and bar counter banter, completely unaware that I was only a few hours away from meeting my future wife.

There’s a song by Russian band Zveri where the lead sings:

“We’ll meet by the first entrance. The password will simply be: ‘How are you?’”
Well, we met by the fountain in Nizhny Park. No password required.
And as it turned out — we didn’t need one. Not even a little bit.

From the very first seconds of conversation, we were chirping away like two canaries high on sugar syrup.

Fun fact: much later, Nastya confessed that when she first saw me — standing there with my giant, blinding-orange backpack — she was not impressed. She even told her sister, who’d come along with her, that this was likely going to be a short one. Heh. She miscalculated. Just a smidge.

We wandered to the city beach, then circled back to roam the park — talking the entire time without pausing for breath. Eventually, we wore ourselves out and collapsed onto a bench. That’s when the conversation drifted toward music.
I flirted a bit, told her I played guitar and knew a few classic yard songs from my teenage years. She asked me to send one, and my interpretation of Splean’s “Khram” clearly struck a chord.

Now, for context: I’ve always been pretty critical of my own musical experiments. I record every song I play — not for vanity, but for quality control. Because in the moment? You might feel like a nightingale on a roll. Then you hit play and realize, horrified, that what you actually sound like is a goose being slowly flattened by a piano.
On the flip side, sometimes you think, “Meh, that was crap.” Then you replay it and go, “Wait… that actually kinda slaps.”

Long story short: Khram turned out to be one of the “actually kinda slaps” moments — and Nastya was pleasantly surprised. I definitely earned a few bonus points.

Neither of us had the slightest desire to call it a night, so we boldly hiked up toward the Verhnii Park to keep the walk — and the conversation — going.

In Deep Blue Sea, there’s this great moment where LL Cool J, playing a very emotional chef, quotes Einstein:

“When you hold a hot pan, a second feels like an hour. When you’re next to a hot woman, an hour feels like a second.”
All right, technically that quote’s dubiously attributed to old Al, but you get the point.

Even the Verhnii Park couldn’t drain our supply of things to talk about.
By then it had gotten dark — perfectly timed — and under the noble pretense of “walking her partway home,” I escorted her toward Novolipetsk, where Nastya lived. That “partway” walk turned into several loops around her block. Like two electrons circling an atomic nucleus, we just… kept orbiting.

By the time we finally said goodbye, one thing was crystal clear:

This was only the beginning.

Move in, or not move in, that is the question!

Living together? Yeah, that’s no walk in the park.
There’s a reason we have all those tired metaphors about “the boat of love” crashing into the jagged reefs of chores, bills, mismatched towel habits, and other domestic horrors — eventually sinking under the weight of broken promises and the slow leaks in the hull of trust.

To make matters trickier, the longer you've lived by yourself, on your own turf, following your own little rituals and rules, the harder it gets to let another person into that space — especially someone who’s been doing the same in their world. And after that, you’ve still got to build a functioning cohabitation model: shared space, shared tasks, shared budget… the whole tangled to-do list of “let’s not drive each other insane.”

Spoiler alert: In our case, those domestic logistics sorted themselves out weirdly well.
I find my Zen doing the dishes — Nastya, meanwhile, cooks like she’s trying to send someone to the emergency room from pure flavour overdose.
I dust every reachable surface — Nastya tidies the wardrobes with Swiss-watch efficiency.
And whenever needed, we switch roles or take on extra if the other is wiped out or just not feeling it. It happens naturally, without guilt-tripping, manipulation, or tally-keeping.
Shocking, right? We like to say we’re damn lucky, and we’re not just being cute about it.

By the time we started seriously discussing moving in together, we’d been dating for a few months. Nastya had brought it up more than once — and I kept hesitating. I wasn’t sure I was ready for that kind of seismic shift.

But then, after one particularly tense conversation in a café, it became clear that further postponing was no longer an option.

I retreated into my inner bunker for what felt (to Nastya, at least) like an eternity of overthinking. I weighed every possible angle, imagined all the consequences, turned it into a full-blown mental policy review.
Eventually, of course, we did move in together — but the drawn-out mental monologue that preceded it became a kind of recurring family joke.

For example, whenever I loudly praise one of Nastya’s culinary masterpieces — the kind that makes you question your life choices up to that moment — she accepts the compliment graciously. Then, waving her spoon like a royal scepter, she’ll look at me with a knowing grin and declare:

“See? And you didn’t want to move in!”

And this little callback pops up in the most unexpected situations — from picking the perfect bathroom mirror to nailing a financial investment.

At this point, I’m mentally prepared for the day our grandkids get accepted into some top-tier international university, and in the middle of the celebration, my darling wife elbows me gently and nods at the brilliant offspring before saying — inevitably:

“See? And you didn’t want to move in!”

Per aspera ad annulos

When it became clear that The Question was just around the corner, the Great Ring Quest began.

I wanted something elegant. Small. A diamond sunken snugly into the band, so my future wife wouldn’t snag it on something one day and watch the stone — after one final cheeky wink — vanish into the abyss forever.

Naturally, all of this had to be done in strictest secrecy. Luckily, I had a cover story built into my routine: Nastya already knew that after work, I often stopped by cafés for some caffeine-fueled people-watching. That made it pretty easy to slip away and comb through diamond dens under the guise of croissant-hunting.

Eventually, I found the one. The ring was stashed in the secret pocket of a secret pocket of my bag. Knowing that Nastya planned to wear both the engagement and wedding rings together, I avoided anything bulky. We both agreed that rings the size of a door handle — with gold and gems cascading down your finger like a Vegas curtain — gave off very “galloping away with someone’s horse” vibes.

Still, the moment needed some flair. I wasn’t planning to do this more than once in my life, so subtlety could take a back seat. I picked a deep red heart-shaped ring box — complete with LED light in the lid. When opened, it blasted a single spotlight right onto the diamond like it was taking centre stage in a Pelevin novel. Maximum wow.

The stage for this grand event? Turkey.
I stressed for days about smuggling the ring past an overzealous customs officer. But in the end, burying it deep in the suitcase and then transferring it to the nightstand while she showered did the trick.

The original plan was to pop the question on September 2nd. It was all lining up perfectly: we were on the hotel veranda, gazing at the sea and a glorious sunset, shisha puffing, cocktails flowing. I figured we’d head up to the room before dinner, and I’d unleash my well-rehearsed romantic monologue.

Nastya, it turned out, had other plans.

As we got up to leave, she frowned and said, “I don’t feel so good.”
Two steps later, she leaned on a decorative column, whispered “Something’s really wrong…” — and collapsed. Full-on convulsions.

Panic detonated. The cozy holiday buzz evaporated instantly. A group of nearby Turkish guests sprang into action, laying her on a lounge bed while I tried to keep it together. Fans, cold water, hands flapping, frantic voices — it turned into a scene.

Someone (or maybe the hotel, via security cams) called for a medic. A local nurse took her vitals and said they were... fine. Oxygen: great. Pulse: fine. Temperature: textbook. Nastya, however, was still limp and barely conscious.

Diagnosis? “She just needs to lie down. It’ll pass.”
And weirdly, it did. Twenty minutes later she looked a bit more alive and we tried to walk back to the room. She didn’t make it far. She collapsed again in the hotel lobby — straight onto a couch.

Cue the arrival of Concerned German Grandmother™, complete with pitying sighs and relentless care. She didn’t speak anything but German. And my German? Somewhere between "zero" and "please stop shouting."

Through miming and mangled phrases, I managed to explain what happened. Oma understood, nodded earnestly, and then darted to the bar. Moments later she returned, triumphant, with a steaming cup of coffee which she ceremoniously handed to Nastya, like it was a healing potion.

Since Nastya was in no shape to communicate, I took the cup, smiled wide and said, “Dankeschön!” To which our saintly German replied “Bitteschön!” and disappeared into the Turkish night, probably off to save someone else.

An hour under the air conditioner revived Nastya just enough to drag ourselves back to the room. She flopped onto the bed and waved off dinner. Clearly, this was not the night for proposals.

Yes, technically, in her weakened state she might have said "yes" to anything. But that felt like no sport. Not the love story I wanted. So I postponed.

 

September 3rd.
The ring was burning a hole through the drawer like Sauron’s eye through Mount Doom. It practically hissed: “Are we doing this or what, Frodo?”

In an attempt to dodge its judgmental glint, we went on a tour. Or so we thought.

A smooth-talking guy at the hotel promised an exclusive, off-the-beaten-path cultural excursion — all the same sights, half the price. We fell for it. Big mistake.

What rolled up to pick us up looked like a Mad Max shuttle van welded together by a blind blacksmith. It had no roof, just a metal skeleton covered by flapping tarps. The seats? Vinyl relics from another age. And a crate of bottled water ominously sat under one of them. Spoiler: that water was not for hydration.

The driver, meanwhile, had cranked the stereo to ear-bleeding levels and screamed over it like a possessed tour guide from hell. Every time someone asked him to chill, he just yelled back, “You paid for this!”

Then — it escalated.

Other vans pulled up alongside. At some unspoken cue, passengers pulled out the water bottles and began a rolling splash war. Imagine a budget-friendly, off-brand version of Mad Max: Fury Road... but everyone’s wearing damp tank tops and squinting into the sun.

Nastya and I were not amused.
I tried shielding her with my body. Didn’t work. Water came from all directions. Even moving closer to the front didn’t help. Everyone else wore swimsuits under their clothes — clearly in on the joke. We, in our "respectable-tourist" outfits, were betrayed and bewildered.

We cornered the tiny, apologetic translator lady who came along for the ride. She whispered that the hotel had misled us, and this wasn’t exactly a standard tour. You don’t say.

When the vans lined up later for the foam cannon, we said nope. Politely, but firmly. She whimpered that it would be “fun” and, more worryingly, “please don’t anger the Turks.”

We were like: “Excuse me WHAT?” We stood our ground. Another couple defected too.

On the ride back, a burly Turkish dude came over and growled something. Our ever-helpful German seatmate translated his rant: “Why are you ruining the fun for everyone with your sour faces?”

Oh hell no.

I calmly — yet murderously — explained our side. As I spoke, I watched the German lady’s face go from smug to neutral, then sympathetic, then kind. She turned to the man, translated everything, and he instantly waved us off and told us to get a taxi back to our hotel.

And then… I snapped.

You know that scene in a war movie where the calm guy finally loses it and yells like a biblical prophet? That was me. Red mist. Fire in the eyes. Army drill-sergeant voice.
I roared that he’d be the one paying for any damn taxi, and that he should thank whatever gods he worships I wasn’t also fluent in Turkish.

Fun fact: I once got told during military drills to shut up and stop singing because I was drowning out the entire unit. Let’s just say… I can project.

The guy backed down. Everyone else shut up. The chaos finally settled.

When we returned to the hotel, we looked like survivors of a shipwreck.

Nastya hit the shower. I hit the balcony.

The sun was setting.

Now or never, my brain whispered.

I retrieved the ring, took a deep breath, and called Nastya out “just to look at the sunset.”

My heart was doing acrobatics, but after everything, it felt… right.

I launched into a little speech about facing madness together — Turkish or otherwise — and how, with the right person, you could survive anything. I dropped to one knee (on the right one, like a true knight — sword etiquette and all) and opened the box.

Nastya stared at me with the kind of wide-eyed joy that rewires the entire universe.

Then she squealed, “YES-YES! I will!”

We hugged like newly minted lunatics. I slipped the ring on her tiny finger. And just like that… we were officially us.

To this day, I still can’t believe how tightly the threads of our lives wove themselves together.
The odds were not in our favor. Different cities, different timelines, different everything.

But somehow — thanks to one of the least-used dating apps on Earth — those threads didn’t just meet.
They braided into something strong.

A proper miracle.

And man, what a story to tell our grandkids.

AI got really creative with my legs here. Trust me, the moment wasn't THAT acrobatic