I find the topic of situationships endlessly fascinating. Why would anyone willingly
sign up for intimacy that leads nowhere? And though I feel like a hypocrite for even
asking—because I’ve indulged in them myself—I still want an answer.
What part of ourselves are we trying to satisfy by limiting our love? Is it childhood wounds, abandonment issues, or some twisted healing ritual after a heartbreak that left us shattered? Is it grief dressed up as casual connection? We get under someone new to get over someone old, hoping proximity will dull the ache.
My biggest issue with situationships isn’t even the ambiguity—it’s the cruelty. The
lack of communication. The irony of being left by the one who initiated it all. One
day you’re sleeping skin to skin, your head on their chest, listening to their heartbeat as it slows into sleep. And you lie awake wondering if this is the last time. The last time you’ll feel their warmth, the last time their sheets will press against your cold skin.
It’s cruel to engage in something knowing it won’t last—but people do it every day. I do it. It’s cruel to bare yourself to someone who doesn’t even know your birthday. To love someone who will never love you back. The word itself—situationship—
sounds like a warning. It’s not love. It’s not even real friendship. It’s a situation—
unclassifiable, undefined, and ultimately unsustainable.
We’ve gone from confessions in the pouring rain and handwritten letters sent off
by pigeons, to “wyd” texts at 2AM. How romantic it is now, to be emotionally unavailable. To hide your feelings so you won’t be labeled “too much.” To withhold vulnerability in favor of appearing unbothered. We’ve created a culture where
detachment is desirable and sincerity is cringe.
The truth is, situationships haunt me. They keep me up at night. I hate them so much I’ve started writing about how much I hate them.
And yet, there are moments. Moments when I don’t want them to end. Moments when I curse the sunrise, because I know it means I have to leave—not just the bed, but the fantasy. Because that’s what this is. A beautiful, aching, carefully constructed lie. A situation. Nothing more.
And sometimes the hardest thing is letting go of something that was never really
yours to begin with.
