Situationships = True love?

By Gabriel Bernales

What’s worse: the illusion of love or the ache of being forgotten by someone you could never forget? If you held me at gunpoint, I wouldn’t flinch. Pull the trigger. It’s not the fear of endings that haunts me—it’s the half-lived moments, the lies we tell ourselves to feel less alone. Are we the generation so obsessed with labels that we’ve stripped them of meaning? Or are we just afraid of what comes after commitment? Ironic, isn’t it?

Friends with benefits. No strings attached. A summer fling. For years, we’ve spun pretty words to disguise our fear of being seen, of being vulnerable. And now, we’ve landed on “situationship.” 

It’s not a relationship, not quite a friendship. It’s a limbo—a connection with no compass. Sweet at first, intoxicating even, but always with the sharp edge of inevitability. You’ll either fall, or you’ll drift apart. Either way, you lose.

I know this trap too well. It’s like sinking into quicksand with a smile on your face. At first, it’s warm, easy, perfect. Then reality sets in. I’ve been there before, too many times to count. 

There’s a pattern to it: First, I’m drawn to them like gravity, helpless against the pull. Then, when it falls apart—and it always does—I crumble. I cry until I’m empty, until sleep is my only escape. And finally, I pick myself up, plaster on a smile, and pretend the sea is full of endless possibilities. But deep down, I’m still wrecked.

You think you’re the only exception? So, did I.

Why are we so afraid of love? Why do we wrap ourselves in phrases like “low-key casual” or “no-commitment” when we’re really just terrified of being vulnerable? And when it gets too real, we disappear. Ghosting—the coward’s exit—becomes our escape route. We romanticize the moment, pretending the future doesn’t exist. But the truth is, in a situationship, you’re just the placeholder, the convenience, the temporary fix. You’re not their destination; you’re just a stop along the way.

Some say situationships can lead to something real. Maybe. But in my experience, they end with the same tired lines: “I’m not ready.” “It’s not you, it’s me.” They put you on a pedestal, only to knock you off it. And you’re left with the wreckage of what you thought was special. To them, it was just a chapter, a lesson, a stepping stone. To you, it was everything.

Love is messy. It’s raw. It’s a scar that never quite fades. For some, it’s a treasure. For others, it’s a wound that bleeds every time you remember. You gave them your heart, and they handed it back in pieces. And yet, you carry on. Because what else can you do? You bleed, and you remember, and you try to forget. But the memory stays, a quiet reminder of the stranger you once loved.