There’s a strange kind of love that lives in secret — the almosts, the “talking stages,” the half-relationships that never get names. It’s love with the lights dimmed low, careful and quiet, when no one admits to wanting more.

I used to think that was enough. Then I learned what it feels like when someone loves you without hesitation, and suddenly, “almost” didn’t feel like enough anymore.

If you spend enough time on a college campus, you’ll hear people describe relationships with phrases like “we’re talking,” “it’s not serious” or “we’re just seeing where it goes” all the time. These phrases float around dorm lounges and dining halls like background noise, and they all mean the same thing: “Don’t expect too much from me in a relationship.”

It feels like nobody wants to admit they care anymore, as if admitting you have real feelings places a target on your back. The modern college dating scene revolves around ambiguity and thrives on “situationships,” talking stages and vibing. Nobody seems to want commitment or the responsibility of a real relationship even when they’re basically in one.

The term “situationship” gets thrown around so casually that it’s almost become a legitimate relationship status, something between “just talking” and “officially dating.” Honestly, it seems like the perfect middle ground — close enough to feel something yet distant enough not to get hurt. Caring too much, after all, has somehow become embarrassing.

We joke about it, but the culture of emotional detachment runs deep. Being “unbothered” and “nonchalant” has become a form of social currency. We curate our emotions the same way we curate our Instagram stories — carefully filtered, never too raw, always cool. I doubt that we don’t want love, but we want to come across as if we don’t need it. Because in a world where everyone’s afraid of being the one who cares more, vulnerability feels like losing.

How did we get here? When did we become self-conscious robots that don’t want to interact openly with each other?

During the pandemic, many of us spent key years of young adulthood isolated behind screens, learning how to communicate through texts, memes and blurry FaceTime calls. When lockdown ended, social life resumed, but emotional openness didn’t. We got used to distance, and even now, that distance feels safer than honesty.

It’s not hard to see why that appeals to us. If you don’t care too much, you can’t be disappointed. If you never define your relationship, you can’t lose it. But that mindset, while protective, can also leave you feeling strangely empty. The fear of vulnerability and post-pandemic social detachment has turned us into monsters who recoil at the thought of real love. We have reshaped what relationships mean for our generation, protecting ourselves from genuine affection by using emotional distance as a form of armor.

There’s a quiet loneliness that comes with pretending you don’t care that feels like nostalgia for a relationship that technically never existed. It’s seeing someone you like talk to someone else at a party and wondering if you’re being misled. Most intensely of all, it’s the exhaustion of playing it cool when you just want to ask, “Do you even actually like me?”

Emotional detachment has become trendy, almost aspirational, but it doesn’t actually feel good; it just feels safe. And maybe that’s the real problem — we’ve started mistaking safety for satisfaction.

I’ll admit I’ve caught myself doing this too. I say “it’s fine” when really I mean “I’m hurt,” or I laugh off moments that actually matter to me. Admitting you care means handing someone the power to hurt you, and that’s terrifying.

Recently, though, something shifted. I fell into a relationship that wasn’t confusing or undefined or filled with mixed signals. Just two people trying, honestly, to care about each other. My girlfriend shows me what openness looks like. She doesn’t flinch from vulnerability, she runs straight toward it and faces it head-on. She tells me when she’s scared, when she’s sad, when she’s feeling stressed, all without needing it to sound perfect or put together.

There’s no pretending with her. When she laughs, she really laughs. When she looks at me and tells me she loves me, I trust that she means it.

Being with her reminds me of something I forgot. Love isn’t supposed to be a strategy. It’s not about who can stay “chill” the longest or who says “I miss you” first. It’s about being brave enough to show up, again and again, even when it’s scary — and, believe me, I know it is scary. Really falling for someone means accepting that you could get hurt, that one day, things might fall apart.

But that fear doesn’t cancel out the beauty of it. In fact, it’s what makes it meaningful. Love feels so alive precisely because it’s fragile. Because you’re putting your heart in someone else’s hands and trusting they’ll hold it gently.

There’s a quiet thrill in knowing that nothing is guaranteed but choosing to care anyway — that’s what makes it human. That’s what makes it real. She reminds me every day that being soft isn’t the same thing as being weak and that letting yourself love fully, messily and without irony is one of the bravest things a person can do. Yes, there’s a chance we’ll get hurt. But there’s also the chance we’ll build something lasting, something worth remembering and missing out on that because of fear is the only real loss.

There’s a line I think about a lot, “The bravest thing you can do is care in a world that teaches you not to.” If that’s true, then maybe vulnerability is our generation’s quiet rebellion. Not the curated version we post online, but the messy, real kind that requires trust. The kind that might end in heartbreak, but also might not.

So here’s what I’m trying to tell you: caring isn’t cringe, wanting more doesn’t make you needy and calling something what it is doesn’t ruin it. It just makes it real.

The real risk isn’t loving too much, it’s spending your 20s pretending you don’t.

Mia Kirisits is a sophomore majoring in psychology.

Views expressed in the opinions pages represent the opinions of the columnists. The only piece that represents the view of the Pipe Dream Editorial Board is the staff editorial.