There is a strange duality at the heart of modern dating that deserves academic recognition, a sociological conference, and possibly a small therapy fund. On one side of the equation, people show up to dates with the emotional intensity of nineteenth-century poets. They speak about connection. About chemistry. About “vibes.” Someone mentions how rare it is to meet someone you can really talk to these days. Someone else says something dangerously romantic like, “I feel like I’ve known you forever.” You walk home from the evening slightly stunned, slightly hopeful, and dangerously close to believing that perhaps the universe has finally decided to be kind to you.
Then the texting begins.
Or rather, it almost begins.
Because the same person who spent three hours maintaining eye contact, asking thoughtful questions about your childhood, and discussing the meaning of life over coffee now communicates like a cryptid spotted once every seventeen business days. Messages arrive sporadically. Sometimes there is a meme. Sometimes there is a three-word response. Sometimes there is nothing at all, which forces you to wonder whether they are busy, overwhelmed, or simply living in the woods with no mobile reception.
This is the defining contradiction of modern romance: in person, people date like poets; online, they text like creatures who have just discovered human language and are not entirely sure how it works.
Understanding why this happens requires unpacking a peculiar mix of psychology, technology, and the cultural habit of pretending that emotional interest is best expressed through strategic confusion.
The theatrical romance of the modern date.
In person, dating still carries a certain theatrical quality. There is a reason first dates often feel strangely cinematic. People dress carefully, choose places with flattering lighting, and arrive ready to present a version of themselves that is charming, curious, and emotionally available. Conversation flows more easily than expected. There are stories, jokes, and occasional confessions that feel slightly more vulnerable than what two relative strangers technically owe each other.
Part of this magic comes from the environment itself. Face-to-face conversation activates the full spectrum of human communication: tone of voice, facial expression, body language, and that mysterious sense of chemistry that cannot be replicated through text bubbles. When someone laughs at your jokes in real time or looks at you with genuine interest while you speak, the brain interprets those signals as connection. It is immediate, sensory, and emotionally persuasive.
There is also a social script attached to dates that encourages people to perform attentiveness. A date, after all, is an event with a clear purpose: two people are there to see if they like each other. That shared understanding encourages a certain level of effort. People ask questions. They listen carefully. They reveal just enough about themselves to feel intriguing without accidentally confessing their entire psychological history.
For a few hours, the interaction feels almost old-fashioned in its sincerity. There are pauses filled with eye contact instead of typing indicators. There are moments of silence that feel comfortable rather than ominous. When the evening ends, both people leave with the sense that something meaningful may have begun.
And then everyone goes home.
Texting: the digital wilderness.
The moment communication moves from the physical world into the digital one, something peculiar happens. The emotional clarity of the date dissolves into the murky ecosystem of messaging culture, where every interaction becomes a puzzle and every pause becomes suspicious.
Texting lacks the emotional cues that make in-person conversation so intuitive. There is no tone of voice, no smile, no reassuring body language to clarify intention. A short message might mean someone is busy, distracted, tired, or simply not particularly enthusiastic. Unfortunately, the person receiving that message cannot tell which explanation is correct, so the brain fills in the gaps with speculation.
This is where the cryptid behaviour begins.
Instead of communicating with the same openness they displayed on the date, many people retreat into a strange system of digital minimalism. Messages become shorter. Replies take longer. Entire conversations disappear for hours or days at a time. The person who once asked thoughtful follow-up questions now responds with “haha yeah” and a thumbs-up emoji.
Part of this behaviour is driven by anxiety. Many people worry about appearing too eager or emotionally invested. In the strange logic of modern dating, responding quickly can feel risky because it might reveal enthusiasm. So people delay responses, hoping to appear relaxed and unbothered, even when they are secretly checking their phone every fifteen minutes.
The result is a communication style that looks suspiciously like disinterest, even when interest still exists.
The cultural obsession with “playing it cool”.
One of the most curious features of modern romance is the collective agreement that obvious enthusiasm should be hidden like contraband. Everyone is aware that liking someone is the entire point of dating, yet openly expressing that interest can feel socially dangerous.
This is where the “play it cool” philosophy enters the chat.
Playing it cool involves carefully regulating how much excitement you display. It means avoiding double texts, spacing out replies, and occasionally pretending you are less invested than you actually are. The logic behind this strategy is that emotional restraint creates intrigue. If someone cannot fully read your intentions, they may become more curious.
In theory, this might sound clever.
In practice, it often results in two people who genuinely like each other performing elaborate emotional gymnastics in order to appear indifferent. The poet who spoke passionately about connection on the date becomes the cryptid who replies with a single emoji two days later, hoping to maintain an aura of mystery.
Mystery, unfortunately, is not always romantic. Sometimes it is simply confusing.
Why the poet and the cryptid are the same person.
The most frustrating part of this dynamic is that the poetic dater and the cryptid texter are often the same individual. The difference lies not in their feelings, but in the environment.
In person, emotional expression feels natural. Conversation flows, reactions happen instantly, and interest is rewarded with immediate feedback. Texting, on the other hand, introduces delay, ambiguity, and the constant awareness that every message can be analysed, screenshotted, or misinterpreted.
So people overthink.
They edit their responses. They wonder whether sending another message will appear desperate. They hesitate to ask questions that might reveal genuine curiosity. The result is a strange digital performance where both people attempt to appear effortlessly cool while privately hoping the other person will take the conversational lead.
In other words, the poet is still there.
They are simply hiding behind a messaging app, nervously trying not to ruin the illusion of effortlessness.
Perhaps, the poet should text too.
The tragedy of the “date like a poet, text like a cryptid” phenomenon is that it often obscures genuine connection. Two people can have a wonderful evening together and then slowly lose momentum because neither one wants to appear too invested through text.
But enthusiasm is not actually a flaw in romantic communication. It is, in fact, the entire point.
If someone enjoyed the date, saying so directly is not embarrassing. If someone wants to see the other person again, expressing that desire does not destroy the mystery of the relationship. It simply clarifies it.
Perhaps the real challenge of modern dating is not finding someone who can be charming over coffee.
It is finding someone who can maintain that same warmth once the conversation moves to a screen.
Because the poet deserves better than to be replaced by a cryptid.
Fore more articles that challenge love, loss, and everything in between, visit Her Campus at MUJ. And if you’re the poetic kind, read more at Niamat Dhillon at HCMUJ.