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A year ago, had you told Emma Phillips that before long she would choose a visit to the world鈥檚 first cast iron bridge as the best way to spend her first date with a man she had never met, she would have laughed in your face.

But then the pandemic struck. Around the world, everything about dating changed. Ms. Phillips, a young Englishwoman, began to have second thoughts about the whole business.

鈥淕iven all the restrictions, I thought that maybe we shouldn鈥檛 meet at all,鈥� she recalls of her outdoors, socially distanced blind date last December in Ironbridge, in the English Midlands. A mutual friend had put her in touch with the man. Still, it felt odd 鈥渇iguring out whether you feel attracted to someone, if you鈥檙e wearing a mask and standing two meters away.

鈥淚t takes away the spontaneity of dating,鈥� says Ms. Phillips, who worked for an engineering firm in Paris before returning home to be with her parents during lockdown. 鈥淚t鈥檚 like COVID is the invisible chaperone and there鈥檚 no escaping it.鈥�

Gonzalo听Rodr铆guez, who still lives in Paris, knows how she feels. The 37-year-old Spanish data analyst was used to packing in with friends on a cafe terrace in the evening, or spreading out on blankets along the hip, tree-shaded Canal Saint-Martin on a weekend; that is where he sought romance.

Suddenly, Mr. Rodr铆guez saw this vibrant dating scene shrink to an app on his phone.听

Like singles all over the world, Mr. Rodr铆guez听is now wary of physical contact. He meets only for outdoor dates 鈥� walks or picnics in the park 鈥� and bumps elbows to say hello rather than exchange the customary Parisian kisses on the cheek.

鈥淲ith dating now, you deserve a medal if you succeed,鈥� Mr.听Rodr铆guez says.

Love and personal relationships are basic human needs that are not always at the top of a pandemic discussion agenda crowded with infection rates, vaccination rollouts, and job losses.

As those who are looking for love around the world enter their second pandemic year, many are rethinking what relationships mean to them, and some are even wondering whether they need a partner after all. But beneath the anxiety and uncertainty, most are hoping that love will find a way.

Making Wi-Fi connections personal

Gordon Davis, who works at a nonprofit helping ex-prisoners in Hurley, New York, had been waiting for more than two decades to start dating. His first chance was blighted by the pandemic.

Incarcerated at the age of 16, Mr. Davis was released last May, 25 years later. While imprisoned, he had looked forward to dating for the first time 鈥� even just socializing 鈥� upon his release. But the pandemic changed everything.

Social distancing and New York鈥檚 constraints on bars, restaurants, and other venues mean there are few places left for singles to mingle. 听

鈥淵ou finally have the ability and the freedom to do and go as you please, but there is nowhere to go,鈥� he says. 鈥淭here鈥檚 no one to hang out with. You can鈥檛 go on dates. It鈥檚 almost like we鈥檙e still in prison.鈥�

For singles across the world, there is one place to turn: their smartphones.

Dating apps such as Tinder听and Bumble听report soaring user numbers in the United States, Europe, India, and China 鈥� up to 100% increases. Where once singles used such apps to arrange in-person dates, they are now gateways to open-ended internet dating. 听

The move to online dates听has been a stark change for Londoners whose fast and loose pre-pandemic social lives were built on casual evenings and chance encounters in pubs and at parties.

鈥淒ating reflected our busy lifestyles,鈥� says Katharina Riekemann, a 28-year-old working in public relations in south London.听Hopping straight from work to after-work drinks, late nights to the next morning鈥檚 commute, she and her housemate never saw each other.听鈥淚 never really got to know people that well before. You might have met someone but you wouldn鈥檛 really connect with them.鈥�

Suddenly, she was browsing apps from her parents鈥� home in Bath.

The pandemic may have given her the time to make such connections, but 鈥渋t鈥檚 hard now because you talk to people but you don鈥檛 see them鈥� in person, she laments. 鈥淚 basically have a list of pen pals.鈥�

And as the world faces another year of restrictions, global fatigue with app dating is setting in.听Zoom 鈥渄ates鈥� feel like job interviews.听Messages on dating apps stack up, conversations about daily life in the living room quickly grow stale, and relationships go nowhere.

It鈥檚 complicated 鈥�

After swiping right and making a match, singles across the world face an existential question: How does one 鈥渄ate鈥� amid a pandemic? What is the proper etiquette once restrictions are loosened? Public space or at home? Elbow bump or 鈥� if not too forward听鈥撎�补听办颈蝉蝉?

All the traditional uncertainties of early dates are magnified in unfamiliar ways, making everything more complicated. Choosing the right place to meet, judging the other person鈥檚 comfort zones, deciding if and when to take your mask off; all this adds pressure.

Health worries have also made singles choosier, as they weigh the attraction of a date against the need to protect loved ones at home or to preserve 鈥渂ubbles鈥� created with friends and co-workers.

That means added complications for Matt Mohr, who met his girlfriend in weekly Zoom dinners with a group of听mutual听friends last year.

They both self-isolate for two weeks before he makes the two-hour drive from his home in Columbus, Ohio, to her place for weekends of cooking and watching Hulu, and then self-isolate again after their time together.

鈥淭here鈥檚 a certain amount of acceptable risk that we鈥檙e taking now every time that I go up,鈥� says Mr. Mohr, who works in health care IT.听

Dating logistics are even more complicated for socially and religiously conservative singles who have long met their potential partners only in public areas under the watchful eyes of chaperones, within the bounds of tradition.

In Israel, cafes, restaurants, and hotel lobbies 鈥� popular venues for first dates among ultra-Orthodox couples 鈥� are closed. The pandemic has also disrupted other religious Jews鈥� reliance on social networks rooted in synagogues and Sabbath and holiday meals.

Dates, when they happen, have been relegated to the outdoors, with the cold and winter rains acting as a damper.

鈥淚 had a date in the rain. I鈥檓 33,鈥� says Zehava, a teacher. 鈥淚 came home in tears. It鈥檚 not听尘别苍蝉肠丑濒别肠丑,鈥�听she adds, using the Yiddish word for dignified.

Allona Urbach, director of the couples programs at Tzohar, a rabbinical organization, says that even under normal circumstances 鈥渋t鈥檚 as difficult for a person to find their match as it is to part the Red Sea. In corona times, it鈥檚 even harder.鈥�

But for those who do meet the right person now, she adds, 鈥渢he connection often seems richer and evolves more quickly.鈥�

Some break up, some bond

Not everyone is so fortunate, and breaking up is even harder than usual amid COVID-19; no 鈥渘ight out with friends鈥� to commiserate, turn the page, or forget your heartbreak; no blind dates to dip your toe back into the dating pool.

But there was a silver lining for Emily Maggs, a 27-year-old business development director for a health nonprofit in Atlanta when she and her boyfriend broke up just before last year鈥檚 lockdowns.

鈥淚 think it was kind of a blessing, because it helped me distance myself. I mean I听had听to distance myself from him,鈥� she says.

Ms. Maggs has been single throughout the pandemic and hasn鈥檛 gone on a date, or even downloaded a dating app, out of health concerns. But she, like many, can feel the pressure mounting 鈥渢o meet someone.鈥�

鈥淚t feels like there鈥檚 this timer that has been turned on. You always feel like you鈥檙e missing out; you鈥檙e losing time. I鈥檝e never felt this before in my life.鈥�

For many couples and casual dates, the pandemic has been a pressure cooker.

Soon after lockdown went into effect last year, Parisian Jorge听S谩nchez听Guitart鈥檚 roommate moved out and his girlfriend moved in. The sudden, constant togetherness caused tensions. They broke up a few months later.

鈥淭he situation just accelerated what would have happened further down the line,鈥� Mr. S谩nchez Guitart says now.

But sometimes the pandemic has brought new couples even closer.听

In early 2020, Tlangelani Nyathi and Selina Weber, both in their early 20s, decided to move in together in Port Elizabeth, South Africa, less than a year after听sharing a whirlwind fling听at the university where they were both studying.

They then unexpectedly spent an entire nationwide lockdown in their cozy studio apartment, sharing a single room all day, every day. For five months.

鈥淲e learned how to really be together because we were always together,鈥� says Ms. Weber, who is German.

When she returned home last August, the couple applied for a German visa for Ms. Nyathi, supporting the application with evidence of their commitment to each other such as affidavits, photographs, and lease agreements. They were reunited in Hanover in December.

鈥淓verything we went through in the pandemic underscored how serious we are about each other,鈥� says Ms. Nyathi.

In Jordan and elsewhere in the Arab world, the pandemic has shortened the traditional multistep courtship and engagement period from months to weeks, and in some cases, just days.

It was while trading daily messages during a nationwide lockdown last April that Jordanian engineering student Osama Nasser and his university sweetheart decided they wanted to marry.

Meeting after the lockdown ended in August, their families expedited a back-and-forth process of vetting and visits to sign a marriage contract.听Not waiting for the pandemic鈥檚 end to hold the traditional big fat Arab wedding, they will have a small ceremony this summer at home and add to the wedding drums, clapping and songs pulsing from Amman apartment windows each Friday.

鈥淲ith all this uncertainty, you either get married now 鈥� or you risk missing out,鈥� says Mr. Nasser.听听

A fresh outlook

The pandemic has led some singles to change their outlook on love and fulfillment.

鈥淚鈥檓 not giving up, but I imagine my future alone,鈥� says Mr.听Rodr铆guez, the data analyst in Paris. 鈥淣ot lonely, but alone. It is hard to imagine when life will back to how it used to be.鈥�

Some are embracing being alone.

鈥淚t鈥檚 not the moment for me. There are too many risks and not enough benefits,鈥� says Nina, a 40-year-old Parisian. She is potentially giving up her 鈥渓ast chance to have a baby鈥� to avoid rushing into the wrong relationship and to protect her mother, with whom she lives.

After a few 鈥渂ad experiences鈥� with pushy matches, she gave up on apps and instead is using the pandemic to focus on her interests, reading and exercising at home 鈥� putting herself first, and enjoying it.

鈥淚t is really a one-of-a-kind chance to focus on ourselves and do things we never had the opportunity to do before,鈥� says Nina.

Amid loss, long odds, and dating apps deleted and reloaded, love鈥檚 hope still springs eternal on this Valentine鈥檚 Day.

Having听tried his hand at 鈥渆very app you can think of,鈥澨齅r. Davis, the nonprofit worker from New York, is still waiting to meet someone for 鈥渁 little dinner, a walk, to enjoy nice views.

鈥淚f I get a chance to go on a date, I鈥檓 going!鈥� he says.

Nick Roll in Cincinnati; Dina Kraft in Tel Aviv, Israel; and Ryan Brown in Johannesburg contributed reporting to this article.