You think you know them, you know their voice, you know the sound of their laugh, you know their music taste. You’ve seen them grow into this person, watched them achieve big things, change hairstyles, cry on livestreams, lose relationships, and share secrets they swear they haven’t told anyone. You don’t really know them, but it still feels like you do. That is intimacy to you.
In a world that often feels too lonely or too loud at times, there’s a very comforting feeling in this type of connection. When your own life gets too noisy, there’s a grounding feeling in turning to someone else’s life. It’s easy to convince yourself you know them, even if you REALLY don’t. Just because you’ve grown with them and somehow their milestones have now started to feel like yours, too.
The Internet really does its wonders, it doesn’t just connect us- it makes us believe we’re a part of something intimate, some special connection with creators, influencers, or celebrities you only see on your screens. We build these invisible bonds with people through screens; people who would never know our names, somehow they feel safer than people in real life, right?
This phenomenon has a name: a parasocial relationship- a one-sided bond between a creator and an audience.
The performance of authenticity.
We live in the social media era, where being ‘real” is the new thing; it’s a highly successful marketing strategy. The crying selfie, the “I just woke up” vlog, messy relationship confessions- it all markets something: engagement, empathy, realness.
We humans: we crave authenticity, something real in this world of artificiality. But on the internet, this authenticity is curated. Vulnerability, instead of being a pure aspect of human feelings, becomes part of the aesthetic; rawness packaged neatly for consumption.
It’s the little things; the “you guys are like our family”, the tearful confessions, it all builds a brand, curated around INTIMACY, and this intimacy is an illusion. An illusion that convinces us we are seeing the real them.
The harsh truth is, this connection is algorithm-centered now. The more emotionally invested we are, the longer we stay, and the more profitable this bond becomes to the creator. The performance of being real feels genuine because it’s designed to. And we, in our loneliness and curiosity, fall for it every single time.
Blurred boundaries.
Somewhere between all this, admiration, connection, the bond, the boundaries BLUR. You start to feel entitled over them; over someone who doesn’t even know you in real life. You start to feel like you deserve honesty, explanations, and updates. After all, they’ve shared EVERYTHING with you, right? You’ve been there since their “nobody knew me then” days. The connection is real for you, but not really reciprocated, and that imbalance can hurt. And it’s not just audiences who suffer. The same creators who once found joy in sharing suddenly feel trapped by the intimacy they’ve built. The pressure to perform their “real life” becomes unbearable. They owe their audience nothing, and yet they feel like they owe them everything. The illusion of closeness cuts both ways: we seek comfort, they chase authenticity, and somewhere in the middle, both sides end up exhausted.
Real intimacy.
The illusion of intimacy may be hurtful and just VERY unhealthy, but it’s also a proof; a proof that we’re all just humans craving connection- that between the social media algorithms and filters all we want is to be seen.
These digital relationships can remind us that we’re not alone: that someone, somewhere, understands what it feels like to be us. But the danger lies in mistaking that flicker of recognition for genuine closeness.
Real intimacy is the one that fills you rather than drains you, and it isn’t built on curated glimpses you see on your screens or parasocial comfort. It’s in the beauty of reciprocity, being known as much as you know, being loved back, being real without an audience.
The next time you catch yourself scrolling through someone’s life like it’s a story you’re part of, pause. Appreciate what their content gives you, but remember what it isn’t. They’re not your friend, your confidant, or your mirror. They’re a moment in your feed, and that’s it. You’re allowed to step away, live your own life, face your own truths, and form your own connections.
Because in a world that constantly sells connection, maybe the most intimate thing we can do is look up from the screen and reach for the people who can look back.
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