No, you don’t, Topper! You love the idea of me. You love being seen with me. But you don’t love me.
Sarah Cameron, Outer Banks (Played by Madelyn Cline)
When Sarah Cameron screamed those words at Topper Thornton, the Outer Banks universe tilted on its axis. The boy who looked like he came straight out of a Ralph Lauren advert stood there, all wounded pride and pressed polos, realising maybe, just maybe, she was right. And Sarah? The blonde sunbeam of Poguelandia, who thought loving John B’s rebel heart was salvation when it was really just chaos dressed as freedom.
That moment wasn’t just their drama. It was our drama too. Because we’ve all been Topper, thinking we love someone because they look good next to us in photos. And we’ve all been Sarah, mistaking adrenaline for affection, chasing the high of being chosen by someone who lives in constant survival mode.
Topper loved the aesthetic of Sarah: the soft curls, the Outer Banks royalty status, the glow that made him feel more interesting. Sarah loved the idea of John B: the outlaw fantasy, the escape, the chaos that made her forget she was built from country club rules and gold-plated expectations.
Both of them were loving reflections, not realities. And that’s why the line hits like a punch to the chest, years later. Because it’s not just about two sunburned teenagers with too much passion and too little perspective. It’s about us; chronically online, chronically yearning, chronically falling for people who exist better in our heads than in our hands.
Loving the idea vs the person.
So what does it even mean to love the idea of someone? It’s like falling in love with a trailer, then walking out halfway through the movie because the plot started to drag. You love the aesthetic, not the reality. You love how they make you feel, not who they really are.
When you love the idea of someone, you fall for the version you built in your Notes app; not the one who shows up late, forgets your birthday, and still hasn’t healed from their ex. You romanticise their potential, the projection, the “one day they’ll change” storyline like it’s your personal Wattpad fanfic. It’s dopamine with a deadline.
Psychologically speaking, it’s called idealisation. Your brain takes a handful of moments like a playlist they sent, a smile at sunset, a shared trauma joke, and builds a palace out of it. But the palace is imaginary, and the person? They’re standing outside wondering when you’ll stop confusing them for architecture.
That’s what Topper did to Sarah. That’s what Sarah did to John B. And that’s what we do every time we mistake chemistry for connection. Because it’s easy to love someone when they’re abstract. When they’re still a fantasy. When they haven’t annoyed you yet by breathing too loudly.
The idea of a person is intoxicating because it’s flawless. Real people? They’re messy. They have morning breath, they make you cringe, they have childhood trauma they haven’t unpacked. But the idea? The idea is cinematic. The idea makes heartbreak feel like art.
The crash course in real life.
You know that crush who sends one text and your brain immediately goes “we’re getting married in Italy?” That’s loving the idea. That person you barely know but are convinced “gets you” because they also listen to Arctic Monkeys? Loving the idea. That situationship that exists only in “what are we” conversations and your Spotify Wrapped? Definitely loving the idea.
In real life, love means seeing them for who they are, not who you want them to be. It’s acknowledging that they forget to text back, they don’t know how to communicate yet, and somehow you still choose them. The problem is, most of us never get there. We fall for the highlight reel, not the behind-the-scenes.
Social media makes this worse. Every “soft launch”, every sunset post, every “he’s literally the moon” caption feeds the delusion. We don’t date people anymore; we date aesthetic archetypes. The coffee-date boy. The “reads Murakami but texts dry” guy. The “sunflower girl with sad eyes”. And then when they act human, we feel betrayed. Not because they lied, but because our fantasy collapsed.
Loving the idea of someone feels safe. It’s love without risk. It’s heartbreak-proof until it isn’t. It’s why we stay in situationships longer than we should, chasing a version of them that only existed in the first three weeks, before the filters faded and reality kicked in. We say “it used to be so good” when, really, it was just good in theory.
Delulu is not a lasting solulu.
Let’s be honest: we’re all emotionally broke. Stability feels boring. Mystery feels luxurious. And in a world where everyone’s hustling, ghosting, or trauma-dumping, fantasy feels easier than feelings.
We love the idea because it costs less vulnerability. You can’t get rejected by a daydream. You can’t get ghosted by potential. You can project endlessly and call it “manifesting”. You can convince yourself that the person you’ve built in your head is the one because they’ll never contradict you.
But here’s the irony: while we chase fantasies to avoid pain, that’s exactly what hurts us. The heartbreak isn’t always from the breakup. It’s from the realisation that the version you loved never existed. You’re not mourning the person, you’re mourning the projection.
We call it delulu now, but let’s be real, that’s just rebranded heartbreak. It’s self-inflicted mythology. You wrote the script, they didn’t audition, and still, you’re shocked when they forget their lines.
The love we think we deserve.
Sarah loved the idea of John B because he represented rebellion; a way out. Topper loved Sarah because she made him feel wanted; a way in. Neither was loving the person, they were loving the purpose.
We all do it. We pick people who make us feel like the best versions of ourselves, not realising they can’t sustain that forever. We confuse chemistry for compatibility, attention for affection, chaos for connection. And when the illusion cracks, we call it betrayal when really, it’s clarity.
Maybe loving the idea of someone is a rite of passage. Maybe we all need one fantasy-fuelled heartbreak to learn what real love feels like. Because real love isn’t cinematic. It’s choosing someone after seeing the bloopers. It’s not “I love what you represent,” it’s “I love you, even when you’re insufferable.”
That’s what Sarah never found in either of them. And maybe that’s what most of us are still searching for.
Do you love them, or the role they play in your story?
So, the next time you catch yourself spiralling over someone’s playlists, their perfectly timed texts, their good hair and better timing – pause. Ask yourself: Do you love them, or do you love the version of yourself you get to be around them?
Because maybe you don’t love them. Maybe you love how they make your loneliness quieter. Maybe you love the fantasy of being seen. Maybe you love the story more than the person inside it.
Loving the idea of someone isn’t a crime. But mistaking that for love? That’s heartbreak wearing lip gloss.
Read more at Her Campus at MUJ for chaotic chronicles, pop-culture dissections, and caffeine-fuelled confessions that make heartbreak sound almost poetic. Written by Niamat Dhillon at HCMUJ, who knows a thing or two about loving the idea of someone.