There are cities where you fall in love.
And then there’s Los Angeles, where you optimize for it.
For a year and a half, I was single. Not whimsically single. Not “finding myself in Europe” single. I was actively participating single. Swiping. Showing up. Saying yes to men with podcasts, men with “stealth startups,” and men who described themselves as “multi-hyphenates” like it was a personality trait.
And somewhere between Sunset Boulevard and a glass house in the Hills, I realized something unsettling:
I wasn’t dating.
I was conducting market research.
Because dating in LA doesn’t feel like romance. It feels like late-stage capitalism with a cocktail menu.
Let’s start with Raya.
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Raya is marketed as exclusive. Curated. Elevated. A velvet rope for the romantically elite. What it actually is is a rotating slideshow of DJs and actors who are either “about to make it” or “used to make it.”
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DJ in Mykonos.
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DJ in Tulum.
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An actor whose IMDb headshot hasn’t emotionally updated since 2016.
Every bio reads like a soft pitch deck. “Building something big.” “Let’s create.” “Don’t take life too seriously.”
Translation: I want intimacy without infrastructure.
Raya isn’t a dating app. It’s LinkedIn for men in leather jackets.
And the longer I was on it, the clearer it became: no one is swiping on people. We’re swiping on projections. One possibility. On proximity to something shinier than ourselves.
Dating in LA is less “Do I like him?” and more “Is this a smart investment?”
We’ve turned romance into venture capital.
First dates feel like performance reviews. You sit across from each other at some dimly lit West Hollywood restaurant, and both of you are subtly calculating.
Is she ambitious enough?
Is he connected enough?
Does this pairing make sense for the feed?
Because here, you don’t just date someone.
You date their trajectory.
The actors were my favorite genre. They never introduce themselves as actors. They say they’re “in entertainment.” They talk about a pilot that “almost got picked up.” A role they “were this close to.” A callback that would have “changed everything.”
And I would nod, as if I too could see the future version of them stepping onto a red carpet.
The thing about potential in LA is that it glitters.
It’s intoxicating. It feels like you’re standing next to something about to explode. You start to believe you’re early to the party. That one day you’ll look back and say, “I knew him before.”
But potential is just a promise without proof.
It’s emotional cryptocurrency.
Volatile. Hyped. Rarely liquid.
And yet, for a year and a half, I kept investing.
There were the DJs who “lived between cities” but couldn’t commit to dinner plans. The founders whose companies existed mostly on a Google Drive. The producers are producing nothing but ambiguity. One man told me he didn’t believe in labels because he was “focused on expansion.”
Expansion of what? His brand? His options?
It was never cruel. It was just… efficient.
That’s the quiet poison of late-stage capitalism. It teaches us that efficiency is sexier than devotion. That optionality is power. That commitment is a liability.
Why choose one person when there might be someone better one swipe away?
Why settle when the market is saturated?
Somewhere along the way, love became a subscription service. Convenient. Cancelable. Upgradeable.
And the house parties in the Hills only reinforced it. Glass mansions perched above the city like temples to ambition. Infinity pools reflecting the skyline. A DJ in the corner who insists he’s “lowkey.” Influencers drifting through rooms like sponsored apparitions.
You stand on the balcony, looking out over the lights, and it feels cinematic. The city sparkles like it’s promising you something bigger.
And maybe it is.
But look closer.
Everyone is networking.
Even in love.
Conversations begin with “What do you do?” but what they really mean is “Where are you headed?” No one wants stagnant. And in LA, stagnant is defined as content.
Contentment is suspicious.
Trajectory is desirable.
So for a year and a half, I dated men in motion. Men optimizing. Men scaling. Men who treated relationships like beta versions.
And slowly, I started doing the same.
I would leave dates not asking, “Did I like him?” but “Did I perform well?” Was I impressive but not intimidating? Successful but not threatening? Fun but not messy?
I wasn’t dating.
I was branding.
It’s hard not to in a city that monetizes everything. Social media gamified attraction. Dating apps turned chemistry into metrics. Suddenly, your desirability feels quantifiable. Measurable. Replaceable.
You become hyperaware of your own market value.
Am I enough?
Or am I just another option in someone’s queue?
There was a moment that snapped it into focus. I was on a date with a man who kept checking his reflection in the back of his spoon. Not subtly. Fully. Adjusting. Assessing. Curating.
And I realized I wasn’t sitting across from someone trying to connect.
I was sitting across from someone trying to maintain his image.
I wasn’t a partner.
I was a prop.
And the truth is, I had been auditioning too.
Auditioning for the role of cool girl. Of supportive muse. Of a low-maintenance, high-value woman who understands the grind.
But love isn’t supposed to feel like a quarterly earnings call.
It isn’t supposed to require optimization.
The most radical thing I learned during my year and a half single in Los Angeles is this:
In a city obsessed with the almost, choosing something steady feels revolutionary.
LA runs on almost.
Almost famous.
Almost rich.
Almost ready.
Almost in love.
But almost doesn’t show up when you’re anxious at 2 a.m. Almost doesn’t hold your hand when things are unglamorous. Almost doesn’t choose you when something shinier appears.
Almost is thrilling.
But it is never enough.
Late-stage capitalism tells us we must always be improving. Scaling. Expanding. But love doesn’t scale.
It settles.
And settling, in the most beautiful sense of the word, means choosing the same person without an audience. Without a launch. Without a strategy. Without turning it into content.
It means valuing proof over potential.
Consistency over charisma.
Presence over projection.
So I stopped chasing the sparkle.
Not dramatically. Not bitterly. Just intentionally.
The DJs are still on Raya. The actors are still one callback away. The Hills are still glittering at night like a promise waiting to be claimed.
But I no longer confuse glitter for gold.
Because maybe the real luxury in Los Angeles isn’t access.
It’s stability.
And maybe the bravest thing you can do in a city built on branding is stop optimizing your heart.
In a place where everything is in beta, choosing something real might be the most rebellious act of all.