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Why Not Interested?

He’s attractive, he’s rich, he’s funny. So why am I not interested?  

I asked myself this question as I sipped my overpriced latte across from Ethan Morgan—yes, the Ethan Morgan. 

The man who graced Forbes, was rumored to have casually bought an island, and had abs that looked like they were photoshopped in real life.  


He was telling a joke about yachts—or maybe it was about caviar? I wasn’t listening. Instead, I found myself focused on a lopsided piece of spinach stuck between his otherwise perfect teeth.  


“…and that’s when I said, ‘No, that’s not my jet; that’s my backup jet!’” Ethan laughed, clearly pleased with his own punchline.  


I blinked, forcing a polite smile. “Hilarious.”  


Here’s the thing: Ethan wasn’t doing anything wrong. He was charming, attentive, and so gorgeous that people had stopped mid-bite at nearby tables just to stare at him. But I felt… nothing. It was like trying to be moved by a museum exhibit: you appreciate the art, but you don’t feel it.  


“So, what do you think?” 

he asked, leaning forward, his cologne gently wafting across the table. 

“Should we take my boat out next weekend? We could sail to the Amalfi Coast. It’s breathtaking this time of year.”  


Here’s what I thought: I don’t like boats, Amalfi sounds humid, and I really just want to go home, throw on sweatpants, and binge a true-crime documentary while eating an alarming amount of popcorn. But what I said was, “That sounds… lovely.”  


“Great!” He beamed.  


I was trapped.  


***


A few days later, my best friend Nora called me out.  


“You’re insane,” she said over the phone. “Ethan Morgan asked you to sail to the Amalfi Coast, and you’re complaining about it?”  


“It’s not him; it’s me,” I said, swirling my wine like some tortured soul in a rom-com. “He’s too perfect. It’s like dating a Ken doll that tells jokes.”  


Nora groaned. “Girl, you’ve been single for two years. TWO YEARS. Your standards are so high they’ve reached Mars. What are you even looking for?”  


I thought about it. Someone who didn’t always have a punchline, maybe. Someone who didn’t care about backup jets or Amalfi Coasts. Someone who—  


“Hey,” said a deep voice from behind me. 

I turned to see my neighbor, Chris, holding a hammer and looking oddly endearing in a paint-splattered hoodie. “Your porch light’s out. Want me to fix it?”  


“Uh, sure?” I replied, caught off guard.  


Chris nodded, heading back to his place. He was the complete opposite of Ethan Morgan. He didn’t own yachts—he owned a battered pickup truck. He wasn’t gracing magazine covers—he was gracing my front yard, helping me dig up weeds last summer. And yet…  

When Nora asked, “Who was that?” I couldn’t stop myself from smiling.  

“Just my neighbour.”  

Nora paused. “Your hot neighbour?”  

I laughed, shaking my head. “I guess I just prefer a guy who fixes porch lights over one who flies private jets.”  

Maybe perfection wasn’t what I wanted after all.  




Hello Guys,

Thank you for reading the story. Hope you like it. I like to write based on random imagination or moments I have witnessed. Hope you enjoy reading these stories.

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Happy Reading!


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