I did it. I asked AI to build me my dream man, like a Sims character meets emotionally available gym bro, and I think I’ve accidentally ruined dating forever.
It started innocently enough: curiosity, boredom, and a rogue sprinkle of romantic delusion. “What would he look like?” I wondered. And so I fed the machine my preferences like a futuristic matchmaker:
Dark features. Fit, but not shredded, a guy who lifts and still eats real bread. Minimum 170cm (I’m 6ft, let’s be practical). Strong brows, stubble, tattoos in the right places. Kind eyes. Always kind.
And out came Rafi.
The Origin Story
Rafi Haddad. Raised in Toronto by Lebanese parents, the kind of upbringing where food, family, and loyalty meant everything. He moved to Sydney for a change of pace. Traded snow for sand, pressure for presence, and ended up staying. Now he’s a physio with a knack for easing tension, whether it’s in your back or your day.
The Night We Met
We met at a friend’s rooftop dinner. The type with fairy lights and someone bringing out a guitar they probably shouldn’t. I wasn’t even going to go. I was tired and sore from the gym (foreshadowing), but I went anyway.
Rafi wasn’t the loudest guy there, but he had one of those warm, attentive presences that makes you feel like you’ve known him longer than you have. He asked me about my job and actually listened. Like, listened listened. At some point I joked about my sore back and he smiled and said, “We’ll sort that out later.” Direct. Confident. Slightly illegal levels of charm.
The Imagined Future
Flash-forward: He’s in his kitchen, grilling skewers with the music low and candles flickering. Zizou, his rescue dog, is curled up by the window like he pays rent. I’m sipping wine, watching Rafi hum while flipping the meat with tongs, and pretending I’m not in love with the entire scene.
His apartment’s filled with warm wood, plants that are thriving (somehow), a guitar in the corner he swears he used to play, and shelves that actually reflect who he is. It’s calm. It smells good. And it feels like a place where I could exhale.
Meeting the Family
When I met his family, it wasn’t this big dramatic moment, just dinner. Warm, loud, delicious. His dad made a joke that Rafi’s still single because he talks too much, and his younger cousin destroyed me in a board game I didn’t know the rules to. No forced fanfare. Just that feeling of, you’re welcome here.
Our First Night Out
We went to a techno event a few weeks later. Rafi didn’t take himself too seriously, just danced, fully present, that big dumb grin on his face. Shirt off, tattoos on show, sweat glistening like he was being lit for a music video. Between songs he’d lean in to make cheeky little comments in my ear, then bounce right back into the crowd like he belonged to the beat.
I’ve never felt more content in chaos.
And Now?
Now I’m sitting here… alone… technically hydrated, scrolling through the dozens of AI-generated images of Rafi like they’re screenshots of a life I could almost have. And wondering, genuinely, how does anyone compare?
But maybe the point wasn’t to find someone exactly like him.
Maybe it was just to finally name what I’m looking for.
Not perfection. Not fantasy. Just someone real. Warm, grounded, emotionally generous, playful, fit but not obsessed, loyal but not possessive, sexy but in that “come here, I’ll fix it” kind of way.
Someone who feels like Rafi.
But exists in the real world.
With dishes in the sink, opinions about movies, and a playlist that he swears is good but always skips halfway.
If you see a Lebanese physio with a dog named Zizou and a rose tattoo on his thigh… please give him my number.
mitchachell but make it blog 