Edited By Navya Gupta
“Attract, don’t chase.”
“The three-month rule.”
“Situationship.”
There’s been a surge of phrases like these—and countless others—in the way we talk about romance today. From debates about double-texting to decoding how many ys in a “hey” means what, the entire thing feels more like a laboratory-controlled experiment than a human experience. A dash of this, a sprinkle of that, and maybe—maybe—you’ll get everything you want without giving an inch of yourself. But one drop too much, one moment of sincerity too early, and suddenly everything explodes.
The common denominator in all of this is simple: the idea of self-preservation.
We’ve learned to treat modern romance like a negotiation. A delicate balance of interest and indifference, where showing too much is dangerous and wanting too soon is a liability. There are rules now—unspoken ones that everyone seems to be following without remembering who wrote them. Don’t reply too fast. Don’t ask too many questions. Don’t make it obvious you care.
And then we ask, What happened to romance? What happened to the grand gestures, the accidental confessions, the rom-com moments that used to define love in the ‘90s, 2000s, and even the early 2010s? We long for the chaos of love, the unpredictable magic of it—and yet we flinch at the very idea of being emotionally unguarded.
Sincerity is a sin, and love is a transaction. “Yes, but what did they do for you in return?” is the question. When did relationships become a competition of giving? You don’t want to commit because you don;t want to give, but you want everything in return.
Maybe the truth is this: we’ve built an idea of love that is so curated, so cautious, so perfect that even we can’t reach it.
Self-preservation is a natural instinct. It’s how we cope with rejection, embarrassment, and ambiguity. And in some contexts, it’s necessary. But when it becomes the lens through which we approach all potential connection, it turns romance into performance. A test of who can care less. Who can stay cooler. Who can “win.”
But what are we even winning?
You withhold vulnerability, you pace your responses, you mirror their energy—and for what? So no one ever sees that you care? So no one can accuse you of feeling more?
We’ve become fluent in the language of emotional distancing. We think we’re protecting ourselves, but all we’re doing is avoiding the very thing we claim to want: closeness.
There’s a difference between boundaries and walls. And a lot of us—whether we admit it or not—are choosing the latter while calling it self-respect. But love was never meant to be approached from a place of fear. You don’t get to feel the real thing if you’re too busy trying not to feel too much.
Romance doesn’t ask you to be perfect. It just asks you to be present. To be willing. To go first sometimes, even when it’s terrifying.
Because connection only happens when you stop trying to control the outcome. And love—real, disarming, inconvenient love—has never belonged to the ones who play it safe.
It belongs to the ones who try anyway.
Who care out loud.
Who risk being seen.