You see, I’m a relationship writer. I write about connections, encounters, love, sex and friendship, and all the other ways humans can possibly interact with each other.

So, let’s say I have a friend. And that friend becomes more and more significant. Significant enough to have an actual story about him, anyway. So what do we call the friend? I almost never use anyone’s real name, as these things sometimes tend to become a little... sensitive.

My first book has a character in it. An awful, abusive, ambiguous man. I called him C. It seemed like the right choice, as the letter itself felt pretty self-sufficient for a character of his type. Then there was the Greek God. Can you guess his nationality? Yeah, thought so.

And then there were many other characters who kind of made me stutter a little when trying to define them. There was a guy who was initially a date, then a partner in crime, and then, after a cool non-date, I told him I liked that we were “friends who kiss.” His reaction was something along the lines of, “Do we need to call this anything?” And that got me thinking. Why are we so afraid of labelling things when it’s obviously so much fun?

For instance, why settle for something as ambiguous as a “connection” when you can call the people in your life one of the following?

• The Indian guy who was supposed to be the devil but turned out to be a kitten

• The star of my smut stories whose Apple Music library I would love to steal and never give back

• The two-too-many-restraining-orders ranger

• The sandcastles-in-the-sky wonder I never had the honour of meeting but almost built an entire life with in my head

• The Cannonbolter

• The so-you’re-a-Dutch-king-and-we-share-custody-of-a-goat-named-Jacob guy

• The “I specifically said not your workplace” workplace date

• The once-a-month “Heeeeeeyyyy yooou” cheerleader

• The “Please don’t fall in love with me” cautionary tale

• The “Didn’t quite feel it but for some reason still said ‘See you soon’ at the end of the date” guy

• The “I guess I have to call the police” connection

• The “Was almost dismantled around the cliffs of Eastern Spain” cutie pants

• The “Three days of silence apparently counts as communication” cowboy

• The “I blocked you but unfortunately my vulva didn’t” situation

• The “I can fix him” internship I never applied for

• The “I don’t want commitment but would like unlimited access to your emotional interior” gentleman

• The guy who accidentally made me Google whether dominatrix was a personality type

• The “Two voice notes and suddenly we’re back in business” equation

• The “Please use another big word, I’m almost there” Feeld guy

• The one who has been written off so many times he’s basically a tax deduction

• The “Safe, calm and therefore initially suspicious” potential villain

• The one who accidentally helped me discover the perfect no-kiss exit strategy

...and so many more completely fictional labels, of course!

Why would we deprive ourselves of this much fun when we can simply lean into it?

And I’m not even talking about normal unpredictability. We all know life is uncertain and, more or less, we’ve accepted that. I’m talking about unpredictability on crack.

Imagine this (or remember it). You meet someone on Tinder, Bumble, Hinge or any other dating meat market out there. You actually like each other. Maybe even more than that, but who knows when to call it love these days, right? Maybe it’s limerence, maybe it’s obsession or better yet - just anxious attachment. So to avoid spending another 100 euros at the therapist’s office, let’s just call it “liking”.

So you like each other. You start sharing stuff from your lives. Values, experiences, thoughts, funny stories, blood types (wait, is that just me?) You compare your compatibility on Co-Star. He’s a Gemini, so things are already looking questionable. Just kidding. I would never actually date a Gemini.

You open up, you communicate, invest time and attention. You spend your days looking at your phone and occasionally smiling at it like a complete idiot.

And eventually your brain starts wandering. Where would this person fit into my everyday life? Would he be happy to see me dancing around the kitchen like Snow White with the seven dwarfs? Would he like the muffins I baked? Does he even have a sweet tooth? Because honestly, if he doesn’t, this might already be doomed.

You ask whether he’s a light sleeper because your own sleep is so deep you could take your siesta between train tracks, and therefore you need someone who won’t dramatically sigh every time you move during the night and then wake up half dead the next morning. You ask for Spotify playlists because that meme saying “fuck nudes, send playlists” was actually true.

And you keep doing all of this. Consistently. For weeks. Sometimes months.

Then suddenly, something happens. A misunderstanding. A badly phrased message. A moment handled poorly. And where, in another era, there would have been conversations, arguments, explanations, compromise, now there’s just a button instead. Block.

You decide never to see that person again. And the worst part is, you probably succeed. Completely, with no accountability, no closure and definitely no explanations. One click and the person vanishes from your life entirely. Especially if you only exchanged Instagram handles instead of actual phone numbers.

And all the things that were shared, where do they go? All those tiny confessions, the hopes, the imagined futures, the playlists, the photos, the emotional intimacy carefully built message by message. Do they just collapse into an abyss alongside all the songs that I can’t bring myself to finish? Do they continue floating around somewhere like lost souls?

Because honestly, it feels like this way of dating has turned us all into collectors of unfinished connections. Tiny fragments of them are scattered everywhere and we sit there wondering why we feel emotionally exhausted all the time, while simultaneously convincing ourselves that everyone else seems to handle this much better than we do.

But the truth is, no one deserves to feel disposable.

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