I hope you break up

Ever since I moved to Toronto, I thought dating would be easier.

Not because I thought a boyfriend would magically appear at my doorstep, but because of the sheer number of people. More people meant more possibilities. More possibilities meant a greater chance of finding someone I genuinely connected with.

At least, that's what I thought.

What I didn't realize, was that this world of possibilities existed in ways that were far less charming than I imagined. Because when you increase the number of people around you, you don't just increase the likelihood of finding a connection. You also increase the likelihood of believing there is always a better one waiting around the corner.

I've always been disgustingly monogamous in nature.

So monogamous, in fact, that if I'm talking to a few people and one connection starts to stand out, everyone else naturally fades into the background. If I feel something developing, my attention goes where my interest goes. I stop looking. I stop entertaining alternatives. I focus on the person in front of me.

For a long time, I assumed other people approached dating the same way.

I was wrong.

One of the harsher realities of dating in a large city is realizing that many people don't view connections as something to nurture, but rather as something to compare.

Someone can check nine out of ten boxes, but instead of appreciating the nine, they become fixated on the one. Maybe she's kind, intelligent, attractive, emotionally available, and shares the same values. Maybe he's thoughtful, dependable, ambitious, and genuinely invested. But one small thing isn't perfect, and because there are millions of people around them, they convince themselves that somewhere out there is someone who checks every box.

So they keep looking.

The result is that people fumble each other while searching for something better than good.

What has unsettled me most about modern dating isn't rejection, situationships or even being ghosted. It's the realization that exclusivity and commitment are no longer values that everyone assumes.

For most of my life, I operated under the belief that if someone liked you, they pursued you. If they chose you, they focused on you. And if they entered a relationship with you, they did so because they genuinely wanted to be there.

Maybe that sounds naive.

Maybe it is.

I never viewed commitment as a sacrifice. I viewed it as a natural consequence of finding something worth investing in. I wasn't prepared to discover just how many people seem to approach dating as though they are perpetually browsing. Even after making a selection, even after choosing a partner, even after building a life with someone, they continue looking through the shop window just to see what else might be available.

Perhaps that's the unintended consequence of living in a world built on endless options. Dating apps present hundreds of potential matches with the swipe of a finger. Social media gives us constant access to people from our past. Former connections are never truly gone. They're simply a search bar away.

The result is that many of us are no longer comparing our relationships to reality. We're comparing them to possibility.

And possibility is impossible to compete with.

A real relationship contains disagreements, routine, compromise, boredom, stress, and ordinary Tuesdays.

A fantasy contains none of those things. A fantasy never leaves dishes in the sink, it never disappoints you, and it never requires work.

So when people begin measuring their real lives against imagined alternatives, they often convince themselves that the problem isn't their expectations. It's their partner.

And I think that's why so many people seem restless.

Not necessarily because they've chosen the wrong person, but because they've never stopped wondering whether someone better exists.

I've seen this play out in more ways than I wish I had. I've heard stories of married men with children maintaining dating app profiles while away on work trips. I've met men who appeared to be 120 percent interested in me, only to disappear overnight because they were simultaneously nurturing another connection that happened to progress faster.

And then there are the moments that have nothing to do with dating apps at all.

Let me paint a picture. You're happily single. You post a selfie in a bikini on your Instagram story. And suddenly, men in long-term relationships start liking it. Not the photo of your coffee or the one of your dog. Not the sunset.

That one.

The one they know exactly why they're liking.

And I find myself thinking less about them and more about their girlfriends. The women who probably have no idea. The women who likely believe they are in secure, loving relationships while their partners are quietly seeking little hits of validation elsewhere. It makes me sad more than anything.

Because these men often look happy. They travel together, celebrate anniversaries., they post each other. From the outside, everything appears perfectly fine. Yet somehow, they're still peeking over the fence.

Then, there are the ones I find even more fascinating.

The men who chose someone else.

The men who got into relationships and cut ties with you entirely. The men you no longer follow and who no longer follow you. And yet somehow, they continue to watch every story.

You know the ones. The names buried deep in the non-followers section. The silent lurkers. The men who made a conscious decision not to pursue a future with you but somehow still find their way back to your profile months or years later. Most never say a word. Some occasionally slide into your messages.

But it's the silent ones that intrigue me the most. Because I can't help but wonder why.

Why are you searching my name?

Why are you checking my stories?

Why are you spending your time looking into a life you actively chose not to be part of?

Because if you're genuinely happy, if you're truly fulfilled in the relationship you're in, why am I crossing your mind at all?

And to those men, I say that I hope you break up.

Not because I want you, because there's something left to rekindle, or because I'm secretly hoping you'll come back.

I hope you break up because if you're still searching my name months or years later, then maybe the relationship you're in isn't receiving the version of you that it deserves.

I hope you break up because the woman beside you deserves someone whose attention isn't wandering elsewhere.

And maybe that's what unsettles me most about modern dating. Not that people leave or that connections end. But that so many people seem determined to keep one foot in the relationship they've chosen and another in the possibility of one they haven't.

Commitment stopped meaning, "I've chosen you."

Instead, it started meaning, "I've chosen you, for now."

I guess that's why dating feels so much harder than I thought it would when I first moved to this city.

Not because there aren't enough people.

But because there are so many that we've forgotten how to stop looking.