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Right before I started writing this column, I broke up with Patrick. Doesn’t seem like a big deal (and in the scheme of things, it’s not; it wasn’t) but Patrick was the first guy in almost three years that I really (really) liked.

Or at least, I thought I did. In fact, I thought he could be a significant someone in my life, especially after our nearly 24-hour first date seemed to be a sign that there were really good things to come with this tall, handsome, stock-trading Greek. But like most plot lines in my dating life, I had to wear my rose-colored glasses long enough to get blinded, and finally see the truth.

I met him on Hinge and for our first meet-up, he suggested a fancy-shmancy cocktail bar downtown. After we made our way through three cocktails in less than two hours (sorry not sorry), he casually said, “I actually made dinner reservations at the place upstairs, if you’re interested.”

“Were you just making sure I wasn’t crazy before confirming dinner?” I asked, feeling tipsy enough to flirt, but not bad enough to be a mess (yet). “Exactly,” he replied, placing his hand on the small of my back as we headed out (swoon!).

After a lobster and steak meal that we barely touched because we were talking—and ahem making out too much—we went outside and just like in those stupid romantic comedies that I hate to admit I love, it was raining. We only had one umbrella, and it was his. He’s 6’3” (I’m 5’4” or ‘5’7” in those heels I was wearing). We didn’t fit, so we got all wet. And then we hung out under an awning that reeked something awful and he grabbed my boob over my dress. So romantic, right? 

I didn’t sleep with him that night, but I wanted to. In fact, I made him wait six whole dates (and three weeks) to do the deed. And when we finally did, it was disappointing. The mechanics didn’t line up and though we continued to go at it, it took a few weeks for the party to get started and actually produce a good review…

…And that’s kind of how our relationship went for the next two months: Everything was seemingly smooth sailing and there would be short, indulging moments of passion but they would fizzle out as soon as they were ignited. I found myself holding back, afraid to put too much pressure on him and letting him call all of the shots. I was anxious all the time. I was so excited to have met someone that was really interested in me and great on paper that I didn’t want to screw it up. I forgot to check in with myself and see if I was actually experiencing the butterflies and good vibes that I deserved. Big red flag.

Even though I saw those warnings waving (I do write about this stuff, after all), one date turned into another and soon we made things ‘exclusive’ (and I prematurely changed my Facebook status). I was holding on to the idea of what could be even though the truth was staring right at me: I was walking on eggshells all the time. I held myself back more than I let myself open up. I didn’t feel what I hoped I’d feel in the beginning stages of a relationship: a magical, sexy, all-encompassing rush of new vibes, new kisses, new sex positions, new moments shared together, new secrets… new everything.

Instead, it just reminded me of all of the lackluster relationships I’ve had over the years. It wasn’t satisfying. It wasn’t great. Patrick was a good guy for sure, but he wasn’t giving me butterflies. Not even a little bit.

MORE: 8 Stages Everyone Goes Through During a Breakup

I know, I know, so cliche. But his lack of affection (He only told me I was attractive twice in the entire time we knew each other/I almost always initiated sex or it was scheduled), his timid way of committing (“You’re my girlfriend but we don’t need to shout it from the rooftops”), and his careful way of warning me that shit could hit the fan at any moment (“Things are so stressful at work right now and there might come a time when I have to focus and I won’t be able to do this anymore.”) were all things that I really didn’t want in a partner.

But it took me a while to admit it. The a-ha moment came while I was visiting my family in North Carolina for a long weekend. Patrick and I had decided to take the weekend to “think” and to “figure out what we wanted” and to “clear our heads.” You know, because in a normal, healthy, budding relationship, you need space two months in. Ugh.

While I was there, I went through my old notebooks, and though I’m not that wide-eyed, naive 15-year-old that scribbled names with hearts anymore, I realized that I am still someone who wants some fireworks. If I don’t settle for ordinary in any other area, why in the world was I disappointing myself—and frankly, my 15-year-old self who would have turned her nose up at some guy who needed space after two months of knowing me?

MORE: What to Do if Your Date Stands You Up (I Would Know)

We met for drinks the day after I returned and the conversation was the same ‘ole small talk you’d expect between strangers, not between people who had seen each other naked dozens of times and knew (some) intimate details about one another. In a way, we both saw it coming and we both agreed to go our separate ways. It was the most undramatic, unemotional breakup I’ve ever had. (Except he did say he “might be in a better place in six months” and that “he might call me,”—to which I responded, “I might not pick up.”)

And yet, after I kissed him goodbye (literally) and turned around to meet my friend Jenn for drinks… I burst into tears. He didn’t see it and I put myself back together as quickly as I fell apart, hoping my make-up wasn’t all over my face in the summer heat. It wasn’t about Patrick and it wasn’t about our short-lived relationship—but just at the thought of having to get back out there again.

I’m not going to lie—it’s hard as hell. Most of the time, especially after two-month-whatevers with a could-be-something guy, I get really disappointed and even more discouraged. But the cold hard facts remain: I’ll probably break up with a million more Patricks before I meet whoever this “right guy” is, wherever he happens to be hiding.

But, there are worse things than dating, like being with (and worse, marrying!) someone that doesn’t give you butterflies. Not every day of course, and maybe not most of the time, but at least in the beginning. At least every once in a while.

I get that love can be hard and relationships take work. But those butterflies are worth waiting for.

MORE: How I Started Writing About Love (and the Lack Thereof)

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Lindsay Tigar is a 25-year-old single writer, editor, and blogger living in New York City. She started her popular dating blog Confessions of a Love Addict after one too many terrible dates with tall, emotionally unavailable men (her personal weakness) and is now developing a book about it, represented by the James Fitzgerald Agency. You can find her running along the East River, drinking champagne with her dog Lucy (don’t judge), and constantly tweeting and instagramming. In addition to Dater Diary, Lindsay also writes for AskMen.com, eHarmony, Shape, Engagement 101 and more. Email her at [email protected].