Flirting has a branding problem. Somewhere along the way, it became confused with cheesy pick-up lines, unsolicited comments and people named Fred asking if you’re “up?” at 1:17 a.m. But real flirting, the good kind, has very little to do with any of that.

Real flirting is conversation with a sparkle. It’s curiosity dressed up as humour. It’s saying, “I see you,” without ever having to say the words. And I can’t help but feel we’re slowly forgetting how to do it. Not because people don’t want romance anymore. Judging by the amount of dating content flooding our feeds, we’re arguably more obsessed with love than ever. 

We analyse text messages like they’re historical documents. We decode emojis. We debate whether someone watching our Instagram Stories means they’re secretly in love with us. Yet put two people in the same room, and suddenly everyone forgets how to speak. Mention flirting and people either panic or assume you’re inviting them into a Netflix thriller.

We’ve become incredibly good at signalling interest from a safe distance. A like. A reaction. A follow. A perfectly timed Story view. A playlist shared through Spotify. Modern flirting increasingly resembles two people politely orbiting one another without ever landing. We’ve replaced chemistry with breadcrumbs. The irony is that flirting used to be one of the most ordinary social skills imaginable.

It wasn’t reserved for first dates or potential soulmates. It existed everywhere. At cafés. At parties. On trains. At weddings. In bookshops. It wasn’t always about trying to sleep with someone. Sometimes it was simply about enjoying another person’s presence. There was playfulness. There was wit. There was room to improvise. Now, it often feels as though we’ve outsourced the first chapter of attraction to algorithms.

We meet through apps designed to maximise efficiency, then wonder why everyone sounds like they’re conducting a job interview. “What do you do?” “Where do you live?” “What are you looking for?” Excellent questions. Terrible flirting. Flirting isn’t about gathering information. It’s about creating energy. The best flirtations aren’t memorable because someone said something extraordinary. They’re memorable because someone made you feel interesting. That’s a very different thing.

Personally, I love flirting. Not because I’m trying to collect phone numbers like loyalty points, but because it’s one of life’s great games. The word “game” often gets a bad reputation, but I don’t mean manipulation. I mean play. The kind where both people recognise they’re dancing through conversation together. One person throws a joke. The other catches it. Someone teases. Someone smiles. You leave the interaction feeling just a little lighter than before. Sometimes that’s all it ever becomes. And that’s perfectly enough.

We’ve become strangely obsessed with outcomes. If you flirt with someone, surely it has to end in a relationship. Or sex. Or at the very least an exclusive Spotify playlist. But why? What happened to conversations that were simply enjoyable? Not every flirtation needs a sequel. Some are beautiful precisely because they remain a moment. A smile exchanged in a wine shop. A joke with someone while waiting for coffee. A conversation at a friend’s birthday that ends with nothing more than, “It was lovely meeting you.” Not every spark has to become a fire. Sometimes it’s enough that it existed.

Perhaps that’s what we’ve forgotten. Flirting isn’t a transaction. It’s a language. A language that says, “You’ve caught my attention.” It says, “You’re funny.” “You’re charming.” “You’re more interesting than the hundred other people in this room.” For a brief moment, someone feels seen. And isn’t that what we’re all looking for? 

Of course, there’s an important distinction to make. Flirting is never about making someone uncomfortable. It isn’t catcalling. It isn’t refusing to accept no. It isn’t confusing confidence with entitlement. Good flirting has one essential ingredient: consent. It’s playful because both people are playing. The moment only one person is enjoying it, it’s no longer flirting. It’s simply awkward.

But somewhere between learning how to respect boundaries, which is undeniably a good thing, and becoming terrified of saying the wrong thing, many people have accidentally stopped saying anything at all. We hesitate. We overthink. We second-guess every compliment before it leaves our mouths.

We’ve become fluent in caution. Less fluent in charm. Perhaps that’s why genuine flirting now feels almost revolutionary. A thoughtful compliment delivered face-to-face. Eye contact that lasts just a second longer than expected. A conversation that doesn’t immediately lead to someone asking for your Instagram. Small things. Very human things.

The funny part is that flirting doesn’t belong exclusively to single people. Some of the best flirts I know have been happily married for twenty years. They flirt with their spouse. They flirt while cooking dinner. They flirt over supermarket shopping lists. They flirt while arguing about whose turn it is to empty the dishwasher. They’ve realised something the rest of us often forget: flirting isn’t just how relationships begin. It’s how they stay alive. Life has a habit of becoming administrative. Bills. Emails. Laundry. Calendar invites.

Somewhere between remembering to buy oat milk and booking the dentist, it’s easy to forget that love also enjoys a little mischief. A raised eyebrow across the dinner table. A joke only the two of you understand. Calling your partner attractive for absolutely no strategic reason. Tiny reminders that romance isn’t an anniversary. It’s a habit. Maybe we don’t need better dating apps. Maybe we need better conversations. 

Maybe we need to stop treating attraction like a negotiation and start treating it like jazz. Less scripted. More improvised. More listening. More responding. More delight in the unexpected. Because flirting, at its best, isn’t about convincing someone to like you. It’s about creating a moment where two people enjoy being exactly who they are. Life is already serious enough. Surely we can allow ourselves a little more play, a little more charm, and a little more courage. 

Who knows? Your next great love story might begin with a terrible joke. Or it might end exactly where it started: with two strangers laughing for five minutes before continuing with their lives. Both are worth celebrating. Because perhaps the real tragedy isn’t that we’ve forgotten how to flirt. It’s that we’ve forgotten how joyful it feels to make another person smile for no reason at all.

With Love, Chaos, and Jazz. Always.