Why Between the Lines?

Some people start blogs because they want to change the world. Others? Because they want to change their tax bracket. Me? I started this blog because my therapist is tired of hearing me dissect text messages. instead of opening up about my childhood trauma.

Hi, I’m Jay! I’m in my early 20s, living in Boston, and I have never—never—been in a committed relationship. Not one. I’ve had crushes that fizzled, situationships that were mostly me overthinking, and friendships that blurred lines so hard they probably need glasses. But a real, "What’s-our-anniversary-date?" relationship? Still waiting for that achievement unlocked.

So here I am, navigating the chaotic Venn diagram of sex, romance, friendships, and a crippling fear of both commitment and dying alone. Somewhere between those extremes, life happens—or at least some very awkward and occasionally magical stories do.

I started Between the Lines because my dating life is a cocktail of chaos: one part accidental eye contact with a man I ghosted on the T, two parts horny Grindr chats that go absolutely nowhere, and a splash of me overthinking every emoji like it’s a freaking Shakespearean sonnet. Boston is brutal for dating, especially when you’re a gay Indian man who keeps falling for dudes with more baggage than a Logan Airport luggage carousel.

My love life is like a poppers-fueled fever dream: sweaty, disorienting, and impossible to explain to straight people. Between getting manipulated by uncut Latino twinks who claim they’re “not looking for anything serious” and catching feelings for neurodivergent, emotionally unavailable white boys who exclusively communicate in lowercase texts and memes, I’ve got stories. So many fucking stories.

If relationships are a rom-com, my life is the blooper reel. Like that time I accidentally sexted the wrong guy because all skinny white twinks look the same in my contact list (don’t come for me; it’s true). Or the time I went on a date that ended with me Ubering home at 6 AM, clutching my coat like it was the only thing keeping my dignity intact. Spoiler: it wasn’t.

Boston, for all its clam chowder, cobblestone streets, and short men isn’t exactly a Hallmark romcom backdrop when you’re single. My friends are pairing off like it’s the finale of Love Island, and I’m over here drafting texts that read, “Hey, wanna hang out? Like...platonically? Or not. No pressure. Totally chill.”

This blog is my love letter to the in-between moments. To the late-night conversations that leave you spinning, the awkward firsts (first dates, first “I really like you”s, first attempts at flirting with a barista), and the lessons I’m learning the hard way about love, friendship, and figuring out what I actually want. It’s funny, it’s messy, and it’s probably going to make you text your friends, “You HAVE to read this.” 

It’s for anyone who’s ever fallen for the wrong guy—or the right guy at the wrong time. It’s for those of us who keep chasing connections in a world where hookups are instant, but emotional availability is harder to find than a good top in Boston. But it's also for whoever wants to live vicariously through me, and look at me with pity (or pure horror). 

Expect raunchy stories, awkward confessions, and the occasional life lesson I learned the hard way. Like: never trust a man who wears white socks with Birkenstocks, and always pre-screen your hookups for astrology compatibility (Virgo men, I’m onto you).

So grab a drink, loosen your belt, and settle in. This ride is NSFW and absolutely not for anyone who blushes easily. Welcome to Between the Lines—where clarity is optional, but fun is guaranteed.