“Here goes nothing,” I mutter under my breath, tossing back the last of my vodka soda in the parking lot of a dimly lit Mexican restaurant. Ten minutes late and already dreading what’s inside, I know this is probably not the best way to start a date, but here we are. Date number… honestly, I’ve lost count. Let’s call it 100. Or maybe 1,000. It’s a blur of fails.

 I pull down the rearview mirror for one last look. I run my fingers through my hair, which can never quite decide if it is curly or wavy. My eyeliner has the perfect thin wing, shaping my brown eyes. I take another sip of my drink while starting at myself. Vodka soda in the parking lot? Classy. But after a year of disappointments, you learn to take the edge off when and where you can. It is so exhausting to swipe through endless profiles, hold semi-decent conversations, and then realize—on the date—that the guy either photoshopped his entire face or is only interested in finding someone to “Netflix and chill.”

At first, I thought ambition was the key—a guy with dreams, drive, and a plan for his life. But those men? Too busy chasing said dreams to actually text you back or, you know, show up emotionally.

So, I shifted gears—focused on guys who seemed attentive. Spoiler alert: Attention quickly morphed into “Aria…why didn’t you text me back within 10 minutes?”

Then, there were the gym-obsessed with their selfies, the “look at my passport stamps” braggarts, the ones hunting for Stepford wives, and the ones so unsure of themselves they couldn’t lead conversations, let alone relationships.

And then, there was the cultural challenge. For years, I stayed within my lane, using Indian-only dating apps like DilMil and Shaadi.com, assuming that someone from a similar background would be the easiest match. But the reality? Far from it.

My first date told me he expected his future wife to move in with his parents and cater to them. I haven’t lived with my own parents for a decade; there was no way I was about to sign up for a joint family household.

After that, I narrowed my search to Indian men who had been in the US for at least a decade. Surely, they’d be more assimilated. But the next guy I met said he’d prefer I didn’t work and just stay home to raise kids. As a successful marketing director, that wasn’t going to fly.

And the final straw? A guy who was thrilled I drank, calling me “so cool,” only to follow up with, “But you know, you wouldn’t be able to drink in front of my family. They wouldn’t be on board with that.”

I was defeated. Even if a guy had been in the States for years, it didn’t mean his mentality—or his family’s—had evolved.

So, I surrendered. I would stop filtering by race, by culture, by preconceived ideas of what my future husband should look like. I told myself it was just an experiment—just to see if there was a better alignment elsewhere. That’s when I came across his profile.

Leo Roselli.

For starters, he’s fully clothed in every photo, so that’s already a win. He looks polished, but not pretentious. Italian, I think, at least based on his name and dark features. There are pictures with friends, a family barbecue, a goofy shot where he’s mid-laugh, with dimples that are hard to ignore. And then there’s his answer to the profile prompt. “What are you looking for?” People usually answer with something painfully vague like “Something casual” or “Something serious.” But his? “Someone who can make a great quesadilla.”

I laughed. Out loud.

And it wasn’t just the quirkiness. He seemed self-aware, funny without trying too hard, and real. A unicorn in the world of dating apps. So, I swiped right. And here we are.

The rain outside matches my mood—slick, unpredictable, and a little heavy. A rainy spring evening in Virginia. He could have canceled, which plenty of guys have done last minute—ghosted me with no explanation. But he didn’t. He’s been doing everything right so far. He asked me out (initiative, check), picked an actual restaurant (effort, check), and even made a reservation (follow-through, triple check). He texted to confirm the plans earlier and kept me updated about his arrival. If there were a Dating App Olympics, he’d be in the running for gold.

And yet, here I am—sitting in my car—procrastinating like it’s a work deadline.

Why am I doing this? Why am I putting myself through this carousel of awkward firsts and polite goodbyes?

I blame Bollywood.

Growing up, I watched far too many movies about the kind of love that defies logic, distance, and angry, disapproving fathers. Men in those films would climb mountains, battle family feuds, and convert religions to prove their love. And, of course, I was hooked. Who wouldn’t be? Those stories carved their way into my brain like a song you can’t forget, teaching me that real love was worth fighting for.

But my parents’ reality? Quite the opposite of a Bollywood movie. Following a traditional arranged marriage, they were decently happy, but nothing like what was sold in those films. No grand gestures. No passionate serenades in the rain. Just a quiet, pragmatic companionship that worked. And yet, despite seeing that reality up close, I still held fast to the fantasy.

So, yes, my life looks nothing like a Bollywood movie, either. But a small, stubborn part of me can’t let go of “The Dream.” Somewhere out there is my person. The one who will fight for me, who will see every messy, complicated piece of who I am and love me anyway.

And maybe, just maybe, he’ll even be funny.