Part of my ongoing memoir-in-progress, Dating App Diaries, and the larger Aspie Art Journey, this piece explores how sound, pattern, and connection overlap. What began as a playlist of memory became a study in how we rewire ourselves for hope.
I wrote an earlier version of this piece a week ago, and it was completely different. Back then, the music was everything — the playlist, the pulse, the soundtrack of a connection I thought might last. I let it sit for a few days, not ready to post, and somewhere in that quiet, life shifted.
Since meeting “Maya,” the focus has changed. The songs are still there, but now the rhythm comes from something else — the ease of being around her, the sense that two people can fall into step without trying. It’s less about the music and more about the new pattern taking shape.
When the Patterns Begin to Shift
The grid on the patio was the first sign — sunlight slicing through the slats, flickering like some invisible code. System of a Down was blasting at full volume in my AirPods when it happened, and for a moment, the pattern pulsed in sync with the drums.
I snapped photos before it faded, hands shaking a little. Every time this happens — these jolts of recognition — I think, Maybe this is simply how the universe speaks to me.
Ghosting, Memory, and What Still Echoes
When I first wrote about this moment, I was thinking of someone else — Priya (not her real name, of course, but the name of a former cat). That post was full of hope: playlists, sparks, synchronicities. It felt like a new beginning, like all the noise in my life had finally found its melody.
But if you’ve read Ghosted, Again, you already know what happened next. Another sudden silence. Another track cut short.
What I didn’t see then was that these disappearances have their own rhythm — a strange, recurring pattern. Every time someone vanishes, another person arrives carrying a different kind of light. I don’t think that’s fickleness. I think that’s life’s way of keeping the song going.
A New Verse: Meeting Maya
And this time, the next verse began with Maya.
She’s the kind of person who makes quiet look effortless. She grew up in Hawai‘i and has lived in Santa Monica for decades — a short walk from the beach, where the air itself seems to breathe more slowly.
You can feel that ocean rhythm in her, a calm that doesn’t need to be announced.
The contrast between her grounded ease and my restless, analytical energy is startling — like the silence between guitar riffs that somehow makes the music hit harder.
The Ease Between Beats
Talking with Maya feels like the easiest thing I’ve ever done.
No performance, no second-guessing. We talk about everything — family, travel, food, work, the little absurdities that fill a day.
She works in the health field — the real kind, not the influencer kind — and she lives what she teaches. Healthy, active living isn’t a performance for her; it’s just who she is. You can feel it in her posture, in the way she moves through the world without forcing anything.
There’s no façade, no pretense — only presence.
On our first date, we walked along the beach at sunset and somehow found ourselves discussing dating apps, algorithms, and expectations. We laughed about how strange it is to scroll for connection, both of us wondering why we were still doing it.
I told her, honestly, that only a week earlier I’d met someone who seemed remarkable — and then I’d been ghosted again. I said it without bitterness, just as a fact. She nodded, no judgment, only understanding.
Now, a few days later, we already have our second date planned — and we’re talking about the third.
We decided to wait until after the second to choose what the third will be. That small gesture — we’ll figure it out together — feels huge. There’s anticipation, but it isn’t anxious; it’s alive.
The third date will probably involve bicycles.
She used to ride a lot; I used to race. We both laughed about how long it’s been since we’ve been on a real ride, but when we talked about cycling along the Santa Monica boardwalk, it felt like we were already in motion. Two people, side by side, moving toward something neither of us is trying to control.
Maybe that’s what I’m learning now — that patterns aren’t meant to be solved but lived. Priya’s silence hurt, but it cleared space for this new connection to arrive. Every ending, every ghosted conversation, seems to carve out room for a truer one.
The playlists still roll in the background, shaping the mood. Some of the old tracks still hit — Somewhere I Belong, especially — but they sound different now. Less like a plea, more like a memory I’ve finally outgrown.
There’s still distortion in the sound, but the melody’s shifting. Maybe that’s what healing actually feels like — not a single song resolving, but the courage to let the next one play.
When the Swiping Fades
Since meeting Maya, the noise of the apps has gone quiet. There are still maybe five people who reach out or check in — two of them even lined up for possible dates — but my heart’s not really in it. I might even cancel. Last night I chatted with Katie for a long time, but even that felt different, as if I were already somewhere else. The endless swiping, the constant comparing — it’s all starting to fade. Something real has begun to take shape, and for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like searching.
The Quiet Connection That Sneaks Up on You
When I first wrote this, I was still caught up in another story — another spark that burned fast and vanished.
The draft sat untouched for a week, and in that space something shifted. When I met Maya, suddenly the same playlist sounded different. The noise quieted. The writing slowed down. I realized not every connection has to come with intensity or heartbreak; sometimes it’s the calm that tells you it’s real. This piece was part of that turning — from chasing to listening, from craving to noticing what’s already unfolding right in front of me.
Last night we ended up texting again — mostly about food, but really it was about rhythm and ease.
I told her I could almost hear her voice saying, “No snacks,” and she laughed: “No snacking! If you ate a full meal, you should be fine. Are you hungry or do you just want to eat?” It evolved into a humorous back-and-forth about distractions, and she suggested the Calm app, podcasts, and reading as alternatives. The point was to select healthy distractions.
When I asked what distraction she had chosen for herself at the moment, there was a pause, “Eating potato chips. Hahaha. Joke.” I couldn’t stop laughing. That one became another of a growing list of inside jokes, shorthand for self-control and temptation.
She sent me a few podcast links — Dr. Hyman, Good Clean Nutrition — and somehow the conversation just kept rolling, from gut health to humor to “99 — sounds like nighty night.” It’s the kind of quiet connection that sneaks up on you, the kind where you realize you’re smiling at your phone without meaning to.
In the meantime, my ex-wife texted to ask how I’m feeling (I have Covid) — proof that not every ending has to harden into distance. Some connections just change shape and stay gentle.
Every ending leaves a pattern — and sometimes, the next connection is the start of something real.
This post is part of Dating App Diaries, and it ties into my illustrated memoir Lines on the Spectrum and my art blog Aspie Art Journey. Together, they trace one story: finding calm, meaning, and love after the noise.