Dating in your 40s will teach you things about yourself you didn't expect, and this one taught me plenty. This is the second-to-last week of The Summer of George, and instead of another wild recap, I'm tired in the best way and doing something different. I'm in Greece, my favorite place in the world, living a little softer these last few weeks and looking back at the four people I dated this summer and what I'm actually keeping from each.

There's the guy who talked at me for twenty minutes straight while I finished my entire meal. The London fling that reminded me confident, fun men are out there and interested. The Hinge match who resurfaced with a text doing the absolute least, no apology for dropping the ball, and got exactly the response he earned: none. Because I am not forgettable, and neither are you.

And then the Scottsdale guy, who I did like, and who I wanted to text after a little Greek wine with my girlfriends. I didn't. Not because I stopped caring, but because I respect myself too much. I also get into the story my brain has run since junior high, how I used AI to spot the pattern, and how I finally changed an ending that was never serving me.

Underneath all of it is the thing solo travel has given me over the last ten years: a memory bank of joy that's entirely mine, untainted, and worth protecting. That's why I chose to live these last weeks intentionally instead of chasing one more story to tell.

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