So, I matched with this guy on Hinge who had a pretty run-of-the-mill profile—just a little adventurous, a little artsy, and a lot “my mom thinks I’m a catch.” We chatted about our love for pizza and dogs, and I thought, "Why not? Let’s grab a slice!" We met at this cozy pizzeria in Brooklyn, where the only slice creepier than the guy was the mozzarella cheese that had clearly seen better days. He seemed okay at first—a little too enthusiastic about the dough, but hey, who isn’t a fan of carbs? Then, halfway through my slice, he leaned across the table and whispered, “I’ve been following your Instagram for a while. I love your style.” Charming, right? Except I hadn’t posted anything in weeks, and I was suddenly reminded of one too many true crime documentaries. “Oh, really?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady while my brain raced through escape routes. “Yeah, I recognized you immediately from the photos you took in Central Park last summer. Did you know that the Dreary Diver, a serial killer, used to hang out there?” Now, I’m not saying I’m a paranoid person, but I could practically feel the hairs on the back of my neck standing to attention. I laughed nervously, looking for a waiter to rescue me with an emergency cocktail. He continued, “It’s crazy how a picture can capture someone’s soul