Our modern lives are defined by a paradigm of hope and disappointment. A sweeping generalisation probably, but this imbalance has many broad manifestations, ranging from deep political concerns about our government, to the everyday anxieties we experience when we buy an anti-ageing cream or sign up for online dating.

Take this guy I was seeing a couple of months ago. He seemed very keen, overly keen perhaps. The first time we went to bed together, he told me he could easily fall in love with me, as if he already had. He didn’t seem to have very sophisticated ideas about love, or much else it seemed, which surprised me because he’d just come out of a long-term relationship. But I grew very fond of his enthusiasm, and very used to his little texts to say “hello”, the steady stream of compliments, the regular invitations to spend the night together.

Yet I remained in control, tentatively suggesting that we not see so much of each other, even though I craved the physical contact. The sex wasn’t even that fiery or intimate, but it was something of the child in me wanting to be cuddled and cared for. I didn’t want to be his rebound fling; he assured me I wasn’t. Yet he seemed daunted by the sheer enunciation of these words.

Soon enough, something had changed. He rescheduled our plans, delayed texting me back, and to my horror even started calling me “mate”. How could someone who had been so eager suddenly seem so indifferent? We’d only been seeing each other for three weeks, but I was hurt, disappointed.

Still hopeful, I waited patiently for him to call, ALL weekend, wanting to appear as aloof as his behaviour. When I finally heard from him (by text, no less) I frostily replied, “I’m really not interested”. Now, satisfied that I had the upper hand, getting over him would be a breeze.

I saw him last weekend. He turned up at my flat unannounced, practically shaking the door down. He told me he missed me, and once again I surrendered to his soppy sentiments. He was full of a beguiling combination of self-pity and regret, so I let him back into my heart and my bed. What was I to do?

The following morning he suggested we go for dinner, and I haven’t heard from him since. Had I been duped again? Would I always rise to these scant displays of affection, to my own feelings of inadequacy? Perhaps I had only myself to blame for this embarrassing interplay of hope and disappointment. It was time, I decided, to start expecting more from myself.

By Amanda Carey/MOLI