Three people. Two relationships. One inevitable mess.
It is the classic love triangle formula: two polar-opposite boys and one girl caught in the middle. Usually, one boy is blond, the other brunette (as if hair color alone is enough for her to decide which one she is destined to be with). Their personalities? Lightly seasoned variations of the same archetype. One is the golden boy who is responsible, polite and probably wearing a vintage gold watch, always respecting everyone’s time. The other is the rebel who is unpredictable, intense and somehow always leaning against walls. Sometimes, just to spice things up, they are brothers.
But really, how different can two people raised in the same household actually be? Is one more outgoing, while the other is the brooding, silent type? The question is not just “Who will she choose?” — it is “What part of herself is she choosing?” Because in the end, love is not just about who makes your heart race. It is about who reflects the version of you you are ready to become.
There are dramatic fights, grand romantic gestures, emotional screw-ups and almost always at least one “you deserve better” speech. It is a competition with no clear rules, a slow-burn, long-game tug-of-war. One boy at each end, pulling like their lives depend on it. But where is the girl in all of this? Is she caught in the middle, being dragged back and forth? Is she the referee, whistle in hand, pretending to stay neutral? Or is she quietly leaning toward one side, feeding him rope and hoping no one notices? Like in the show “The Summer I turned Pretty,” every time Jeremiah and Belly share a moment, Conrad is still there, in the background of her mind. Why is that? Why, even in the warmth of Jeremiah’s presence, does her heart always circle back to Conrad?
What begins as a harmless crush slowly twists into obsession. In the show “Vampire Diaries,” Elena admires Damon: she sees the danger, knows he is not good for her, but her heart aches for him precisely because he, the one without a heart, seems to ache for her. It is not love, it’s a need. It is a temptation, a sin. “I cannot go for him,” she tells herself, “There is always the other one.” And we, the audience, are left wondering: why are there always two? Is one simply a backup plan for when the “dangerous” choice inevitably self-destructs? Or does she already sense that heartbreak is coming, and one of them is just the softer landing?
In geometry, a triangle’s angles always add up to 180 degrees. But in love triangles, the math never works. The girl keeps making 360-degree turns, ending up right back where she started: confused, conflicted and probably crying in a hallway. And yet, we keep watching. We binge the shows. We flip through the pages. Why? Maybe it is the thrill of not knowing who she will end up with. Maybe it is the fantasy that everything could change in one kiss, one argument, one slow-motion walk down a hallway. Or maybe, just maybe, love triangles remind us of the messiest parts of ourselves: indecisive, emotional and hopelessly addicted to the drama.
“The Summer I Turned Pretty,” “My Life with the Walter Boys,” “The Kissing Booth,” “Gossip Girl,” “One Tree Hill” and “The Vampire Diaries” are just a few of the modern classics that Amazon and Netflix love to produce. And why? Because they know exactly what their audience wants. What we will binge. What we will obsess over. What we will wait weeks for: the next episode, the next cheating scandal, the next kiss, the next explosive fight, the next tearful reunion, the next hookup. There is always a next. And maybe that is why love triangles work so well. They create that endless loop of “what happens now?” in a way that two-person relationships just cannot. That third person adds ambiguity. Instability. Possibility. Suddenly, anything can happen.
The tension of not knowing who will end up with whom is not just addictive; it is calculated. Yes, love triangles are overused. They follow the same patterns, recycle the same dynamics and rely on the same emotional rollercoasters we have seen a hundred times before. And yet, we do not mind. In fact, we love it. Because no matter how many times the trope plays out, it still gives us butterflies. It still makes us scream at the screen, pick sides and root for characters like our own happiness depends on it. There is comfort in the chaos, a guilty pleasure in the predictability and a strange kind of nostalgia. Maybe it is not realistic. But it is irresistible. And that is the point. So all we can do is sit back, press play and wait for whatever comes next.