The Green Line of My Broken Heart

Dating in Boston is like taking the T—unpredictable, often delayed, and occasionally leaves you stranded with no explanation.

If you’ve ever ridden the Green Line, you already know it’s less of a train system and more of a Harvard anthropology experiment designed to test your will to live. Much like my love life, it’s a chaotic mix of false promises, missed connections, and the occasional bright spot that makes you think, maybe this isn’t so bad after all.

Dating here is a lot like transferring at Park Street during rush hour—confusing, crowded, and full of men who look good from afar but are deeply disappointing up close.

Let’s start with the B line (my favorite!), which I’ve decided stands for Bare Minimum. This is for the guys who do just enough to keep you hanging on but never enough to make you feel valued. They’re the ones who text “u up?” at midnight but can’t commit to a 2 PM coffee on Newbury Street. These men will take you to Tatte for your first date and then pretend they forgot their wallet. Riding this branch is a test of endurance—you’ll get to your destination eventually, but not without questioning your life choices at every stop.

The C line? That’s for Casual, Confusing, and Completely Useless. This is for the situationships that aren’t really going anywhere but somehow take up all your emotional bandwidth. You’ll sit there, trying to convince yourself it’s fine that he doesn’t text back because, “We’re just keeping it casual,” even though you know deep down you want something more. By the time you reach your stop, you’re drained, disoriented, and wondering if this all you deserve.

The D line is for the Dreamers. These are the guys who check all the boxes: good job, decent apartment (read: doesn’t have a mattress on the floor), emotionally stable. They’re the ones who will actually plan a date—maybe even at Barcelona Wine Bar in the South End—and ask thoughtful questions like, “What’s your love language?” But despite their perfection, you feel nothing. It’s like taking the D train through Brookline: scenic, pleasant, and utterly uninspiring. And while you know this is the relationship you should want, it feels like taking the scenic route when all you really wanted was to get there fast.

And then there’s the E line: Emergency Only. These are the hookups you swore you wouldn’t return to, but desperation and three vodka sodas at Legacy say otherwise. You know it’s bad for you. You know you’ll regret it. You know it’s unreliable, you know it’s bad for you, but when you’re desperate, the E branch always shows up—late, inconvenient, and slightly humiliating.

Of course, no metaphor about the Green Line would be complete without mentioning the delays. Boston dating thrives on false hope. “I’ll text you later” is the relationship equivalent of “There’s a train approaching” on the transit app—technically accurate, but when? And how long will you be stuck waiting, staring at the empty tracks like a fool?

Then there’s the occasional derailment, which is Boston-talk for “the date from hell.” Like the time I went out with a guy on a perfect date and told him I was heading to Chick-fil-A to meet up with friends after for dinner, but then said he wanted nothing to do with me. Or the guy who said he couldn't drink because he was on antibiotics from his third time getting gonorrhea (TMI: he absolutely abhors condoms and only goes to the ER to get tested after he had literal blood pouring out of his penis). Or the guy who ghosted me for months and then reappeared with a snap saying, “Hey, I just broke up with someone and thought of you.” Sir, am I the recovery room at Mass General?

And let’s not forget the quintessential Boston dating experience: the consultant who lives in Seaport. He’ll take you to Lolita and casually mention that he bought his apartment at 25, as if it’s totally normal. Meanwhile, you’re calculating how many Dunkin’ rewards points you need for a free iced coffee just to keep your budget on track. He’ll seem perfect—until he reveals he’s in therapy because his mom didn’t buy him a Porsche at 16.

But here’s the thing about the Green Line: for all its flaws, you keep coming back. Why? Because it’s familiar. It’s there. And every once in a while, you’ll have a smooth ride—no delays, no detours, no existential crises.

Maybe dating in Boston isn’t perfect. Maybe it’s full of men who live in Allston but act like they’re from Beacon Hill, or who call Cambridge “the other side of the world.” But there’s something oddly comforting about the chaos. It teaches you to be patient, to laugh at the absurdity, and to cherish the rare moments when everything clicks.

So here I am, still riding the Green Line of my heart, waiting for a train that’s reliable, on time, and headed somewhere worth going. Until then, I’ll be at Kenmore, staring at the map, and wondering if this is the one that finally gets me home.