I usually wait until the third date to mention the Queen.

It’s a personal rule I developed after a few disastrous dinners. You see, most people think “pets” means a golden retriever or maybe a moody cat. When I say I have pets, I’m referring to a colony of roughly 4,000 Messor barbarus harvester ants living in a complex system of acrylic tubes and humidity-controlled chambers in my spare room.

It’s not exactly a conversation starter. In fact, on most dating apps, it’s a conversation ender. I tried being upfront about it once, posting a photo of my best formicarium. I got zero matches that month. So, I went back to hiding it, acting like a normal guy who just likes hiking and tacos. But the anxiety of hiding a huge part of my life made me awkward. I’d sit there sipping coffee, terrified she’d ask to come over and see the "science lab" I’d accidentally mentioned.

I realized I needed a different approach. I didn't want to swipe on faces; I wanted to find someone who wouldn't call exterminators on my hobby. That’s when I shifted gears to nikadate.com.

I’d read that the platform was less about the "hot or not" dopamine loop and more about detailed profiles. Being a bit introverted, the idea of typing out a real introduction—rather than a witty one-liner—appealed to me. NikaDate has this feature called "Letters." It sounds old-fashioned, but for a shy guy, it’s a lifeline. It allows you to send a longer, thoughtful message to start a conversation, rather than just a "Hey."

I decided to be brave. In my profile, I didn't just check a box for "Animals." I wrote a dedicated paragraph about my fascination with eusocial insects. I explained the calming rhythm of watching them organize seeds, the complex architecture they build, and the patience it requires. I figured I’d rather be rejected online than in person.

A few days later, I received a notification. It wasn't just a generic "like." It was a reply from Elena.

She didn't start with "Hi." She started with, "Do you use a heat cable or a mat for the brood chamber?"

I stared at my phone. My heart actually skipped a beat—not out of romance, but out of sheer shock. Elena wasn't an ant keeper, but she was a botanist who built high-end terrariums. She understood the appeal of miniature, controlled ecosystems.

We exchanged letters for a week before we even thought about video calling. By the time we finally spoke face-to-face, the awkwardness was gone. We had already geeked out over humidity levels and substrate mixes. When we met for coffee, I didn't have to hide my hands or worry about running out of things to say. We sat there for three hours, sketching out design ideas for a hybrid terrarium-formicarium.

There were no fireworks or dramatic movie moments. It was just... easy. Last Saturday, she came over. She didn't scream when she saw the colony. She pulled out a macro lens and spent twenty minutes photographing the worker ants carrying seeds.

It feels good to just be myself.