He Said ‘I’m All In’… Until His Phone Lit Up at Dawn

Two nights ago, I matched with this guy on a dating app after swiping through what felt like endless profiles of guys promising chalance but delivering pure nonchalance.

His bio screamed effort: “Looking for someone real—no games, just good vibes and deeper conversations.” Finally, I thought, someone chasing that intentional dating everyone’s talking about in 2026.

We texted for days—voice notes flying back and forth because, let’s be honest, voice notes are the new green flag for vetting chemistry these days. His laugh was warm, his stories genuine. No ghostlighting, no monkey-barring hints. I was hopeful.

We set the first date at this cozy rooftop spot in Lekki—dim string lights, soft Afrobeat in the background, the Lagos skyline glittering like it was showing off just for us.

I wore my favorite black slip dress, the one that hugs in all the right places without screaming for attention. He showed up in a crisp white shirt rolled at the sleeves, smelling faintly of sandalwood and fresh confidence.

Tunde—let’s call him that—smiled so wide his eyes crinkled, and right away he pulled out my chair. Old-school chalance, I noted, heart doing a little flip.

We ordered cocktails—his a spicy margarita, mine a classic mojito—and the conversation flowed like we’d known each other forever. He asked about my dreams, not just surface stuff.

“What’s the one thing you’re scared to admit you want in a relationship?” he said, leaning in, voice low.

I hesitated, then went for it. “I want someone who shows up. Not just texts ‘wyd’ at 2 a.m., but actually plans dates, remembers little things, puts in visible effort. Effort is the new currency, you know?”

He nodded slowly. “I hear you. I’ve been monkey-barring in the past—swinging from one situationship to another because I was scared of committing. But I’m done with that. I want the real thing. Friendfluence too—my boys keep telling me to stop playing small.”

We laughed about modern dating trends, roasted ghosting horror stories, and even joked about how zip-coding—dating someone way across town—just to avoid messy ex-overlaps was becoming a thing.

The night stretched. We split dessert—chocolate lava cake—and when he walked me to my car, he hugged me tight, not that awkward side-hug. “This was different,” he whispered. “Let’s do it again. Soon.”

Second date came faster than expected. He picked me up—actual effort, no “meet there” nonsense—and took me to this hidden jazz spot in VI. Candles flickered on every table, saxophone notes curling through the air like smoke. We danced—slow, close, his hand on the small of my back sending sparks up my spine. Midway through, he pulled back slightly, eyes serious.

“I need to tell you something,” he said.

My stomach dropped. Here it comes—the curveball-crush moment where everything flips.

“I’ve been seeing someone casually. Nothing serious, but… we’re exclusive now? No. Wait. I ended it last week because after meeting you, it felt wrong to keep dragging it.”

I blinked. “Okay… why tell me now?”

“Because I want chalance with you. Full effort, no secrets. I’m all in if you are.”

My heart raced—happy raced. We kissed under those low lights, soft and sure, like we’d been waiting lifetimes for it. The rest of the night blurred into laughter, stolen touches, promises whispered between songs.

Fast-forward a month. Things were golden. Daily texts, surprise lunches at my office, late-night calls where we’d yap about everything and nothing. I introduced him to my group chat—friendfluence in full effect—and they approved. “He’s giving golden retriever boyfriend energy,” one friend texted. I was falling hard.

Then came the night that changed everything.

We were at his place—first time sleeping over. Cozy apartment, fairy lights strung across the living room, playlists we’d made together humming low. I woke up at 3 a.m. thirsty, padded to the kitchen in his oversized tee. That’s when I saw it: his phone lighting up on the counter. A notification from a dating app. The same one we met on.

Curiosity got me. I didn’t snoop—okay, maybe a little. Opened it (he’d left it unlocked, big mistake). His profile was still active. Recent messages. To a girl named Ada. “Hey, your smile caught my eye. Free this weekend?” Sent two days ago.

My chest caved. I stood frozen, the fridge light spilling cold across my bare legs.

He stirred in the bedroom. “Babe? You okay?”

I walked back in, phone in hand. “Explain this.”

His face drained of color. He sat up, sheets pooling around his waist. “Ada… that was before our second date. I swear I unmatched everyone after that night. I must’ve forgotten to delete the app completely.”

“Forgot? Or kept options open?” My voice cracked. “You preached chalance, Tunde. Effort. Honesty.”

He rubbed his face. “I messed up. Bad. I got scared—things were moving fast, and old habits… I didn’t act on it. I deleted the messages, unmatched her right after. Look.” He grabbed the phone, showed me the activity log. No logins since our second date except that one slip.

I stared at the screen. Then at him—eyes pleading, vulnerable in a way I’d never seen.

“I’m terrified of losing you over my stupidity,” he said quietly. “But if you walk, I get it. I just… I’ve never felt this with anyone. You make me want to be better. For real.”

Silence stretched. I thought about every mistake I’d made in my 10+ years of dating—the times I ignored red flags, the situationships I clung to, the ghosting I pretended didn’t hurt. Human nuance: we’re all messy. We fumble.

I exhaled. “This hurts. A lot. But… I believe you. And I see you trying. So we talk about it—boundaries, transparency, no half-deletes. And you delete that app right now. In front of me.”

He did. No hesitation.

We didn’t kiss right away. We talked till dawn—raw, ugly truths, fears, hopes. By sunrise, exhausted but lighter, he pulled me close. “Thank you for not running.”

“Thank you for owning it,” I whispered.

We’re still together. Stronger, actually. That plot twist? It wasn’t the end—it was the real beginning. The moment we stopped performing “perfect dating” and started building something honest.

In 2026, with all the trends and terms flying around, the biggest lesson from my lived experience is this: real love isn’t flawless profiles or viral chemistry. It’s choosing effort—even after the mess-ups—and showing up anyway.

Lagos sun rose over us, and for once, it felt like the city was rooting for us too.