I met him on one of those dating apps that feels more like scrolling through a catalogue than searching for anything meaningful. I wasn’t expecting much. Then I matched with Soren.
He lived in a small coastal town in Norway. I lived in a cramped flat in Bristol, staring out at endless rain and concrete. While I complained about my dead-end job and the gray sameness of my days, he sent photos of the Northern Lights glowing over snow-covered hills.
He’d write things like, “You should come here someday. You’d love it.” For months, those messages were my escape. We talked constantly.
Video calls stretched late into the night, the time difference turning our conversations into something sacred and deliberate. He was thoughtful, attentive, and uncannily good at knowing what to say when I felt invisible or exhausted. He talked about hiking trails, quiet mornings, and working as a freelance translator.
It sounded peaceful. Almost unreal. Still, I stayed guarded.
I’d been disappointed before by people who loved the idea of connection more than the effort it required. After one especially brutal day at work—my boss taking credit for my work again—I decided to test him. I wanted to see if he was serious or just enjoying the fantasy.
Without thinking too hard, I typed, “I quit my job. I’m coming. Nothing’s keeping me here,” and hit send.
I hadn’t quit. I just wanted to see what he’d do. I expected hesitation.
An excuse. Instead, his reply came almost instantly. “Finally.
I’ll check the train schedule from Oslo. Tell me your flight number so I can get the guest room ready.”
My heart raced. He didn’t pull back—he leaned in.
Then, an hour later, another message arrived. “Don’t book anything yet. There’s something I need to tell you before you come.”
That familiar dread settled in my chest.
I braced myself for a confession about a wife, a double life, or a carefully constructed lie. When he asked to video call, I agreed. His face appeared on the screen, pale and tense, sitting in a stark white office instead of his cozy living room.
“I haven’t been completely honest,” he said. Then he told me the truth. He wasn’t a freelance translator.
He was a lead investigator in a unit that tracked international digital fraud. Our match hadn’t been random. My photos and identity had been used by romance scammers targeting elderly women in Scandinavia, and he’d contacted me to confirm I was real.
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