We've Lost the Fucking Plot

We don't fall in love anymore.

What the hell is going on?

It doesn’t matter who I’m talking to or where I go — physically or digitally — the messaging persists amongst women: “All men suck,” “men are stupid,” titles like “low-effort men” and “performative men.” Red flag this, red flag that. Then viral articles like Vogue’s “Is Having a Boyfriend Embarrassing Now” only pour gas on the fire. What the fuck. Since when did we decide that being in love is embarrassing?

When I ended my five-year relationship in June, the apps were the last place I wanted to go. Every app, but especially the dating ones. I had zero interest in seeing who was circulating there. The thought of curating a profile that made me appear charming, witty, or emotionally evolved felt… exhausting. How do you distill an actual human into a few pre-determined prompts? You know how you get to know me? You meet me — by chance, by timing, by being in my orbit. Maybe we cross paths in the produce aisle. Maybe we work two floors apart. That’s story energy.

But back to the main topic. What the hell happened to romance? And why is everyone — especially women — so goddamn unsatisfied? Everyone’s dating in drafts— no one hits publish. I had a guy friend who was all-in on a girl only to find out she was keeping options when she sent him a screenshot of another conversation she was having on Hinge. Or girlfriends who dated someone for three months only to be ghosted after a single week vacation. POOF. Gone. Vanished. No goodbye, no explanation — just a sailor lost at sea while my friend genuinely considers calling his mom to make sure he’s alive. I overheard a girl at the nail salon today saying her friends encouraged her to drive to a guy’s house to check if he was okay after disappearing. That’s the level of chaos we’re at.

Something’s bubbling — an unease we can all feel but rarely articulate. We see it in our posts, our group chats, our essays. But we tiptoe around the truth because it’s uncomfortable: Did we cause this? Did feminism — or the way we’ve metabolized it — ruin love? Are we so terrified of dependence that we’ve forgotten interdependence? We want it all: hyper-independence and princess treatment. But love doesn’t work when there’s only one hero.

That’s where we’ve lost the fucking plot.

Somewhere along the lines of late-stage capitalism, social media, and feminist overcorrection, we decided there’s only room for one main character in love. But a real relationship — a healthy one — is a dual-protagonist story.

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Act I: The Setup — Two Arcs, One Story

In storytelling, a dual protagonist narrative works because both characters drive the story forward. Each has their own arc, goals, and growth — and yet, the story can’t resolve without both of them.

In a story, the inciting incident brings two protagonists together.
They recognize potential — not destiny, but story energy: “This could become something.”

In dating, this is the match, the flirt, the moment of spark. Traditionally, this moment promised a shared plotline — two characters choosing to see what happens next.

Now, however, that moment rarely launches a plot. It’s often just a pilot episode that never gets picked up. People swipe, chat, fade. No commitment to a storyline; only auditions for one.

Dual Protagonist Plot

1. Both characters’ wants drive the story

2. Conflict forces collaboration

3. The plot only works if both stay invested

4. There is a “we” without erasing the “me”

Healthy Relationship

1. Both people’s needs guide decisions

2. Disagreements become growth

3. The relationship thrives only with mutual effort

4. Individuality + Interdependence

A dual protagonist story says, “Your arc matters to mine.” That’s partnership. That’s love.

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Act II: The Breakdown — When Everyone’s the Main Character

In a dual-protagonist plot, tension deepens as both characters pursue goals that intertwine — love, trust, home, self-discovery. The story’s stakes rise because their arcs are mutually dependent.

But today’s dating landscape interrupts this phase with meta-commentary:
-We constantly observe ourselves (“How am I being perceived?”)
-We consume relationship discourse (“Red flags,” “icks,” “attachment styles”)
-We curate our own public personas.

Instead of living the story, we’re narrating it as content. Rising action collapses into analysis. Everyone is half in the scene, half in the director’s chair.

Modern dating has morphed into a multi-POV mess where no one’s sure who the story is even about.

Narrative Breakdown

1. No commitment to a shared goal → fragmented storytelling

2. Characters focus only on solo arcs

3. Fear of merging plots

4. Constant new characters

5. Attention = currency

Dating Breakdown

1. Ambiguity (situationships) replaces clarity

2. Hyper-individualism + “protect your peace” above intimacy

3. Fear of losing autonomy, burnout, career focus

4. Infinite swipe market → fear of choosing “wrong”

5. People date for optics, validation, content

When a story doesn’t know who’s in it for the long haul, the audience stops trusting the plot. When dating doesn’t clarify who’s invested, people stop trusting each other.

We’ve replaced continuity with chaos. Every chapter is disposable. Every date is an audition.

You can hear it in the music. Olivia Dean’s Nice to Each Other captures it perfectly:

“Meet me on the mountaintop / I’ll be in the shallow end / And wait for you to call it off / ’Cause I don’t want a boyfriend.”

That lyric is emotional paralysis disguised as empowerment — the quiet terror of wanting softness but refusing to risk sincerity.

And then there’s Coleccionando Heridas by Karol G and Marco Antonio Solís, where Solís sighs:

“Nadie quiere en estos días / Vivir como si no tuviera sentimientos / Yo no tengo ese talento / Yo sí siento todavía.”

Translation: No one wants to live like they have feelings anymore. I don’t have that talent. I still feel.

It’s the lament of an older generation watching ours mistake numbness for strength.

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Act III: The Genre Shift

In a functioning dual-protagonist story, the climax asks: Will they choose each other despite obstacles? This moment defines the emotional truth of the story.

Modern dating culture avoids this moment. Commitment is framed as “the loss of options,” not the arrival of meaning. So we stay in endless mid-season arcs — no resolution, just new subplots, new partners, new platforms.

We’ve gone from romantic drama to self-referential satire. From co-authored story to reality show audition. Dating apps are open-world RPGs with no main quest. Everyone’s playable. No one’s plot-critical.

And the headlines? “Are boyfriends embarrassing?” “Love is cringe.” These aren’t jokes; they’re symptoms. We’re terrified of being earnest. Vulnerability feels like losing narrative control. Devotion risks humiliation. So we laugh it off. We roll our eyes. We call intimacy cringe before anyone else can call us cringe for wanting it.

The internet turned love into content, and we’ve become our own publicists — maintaining the brand even when our hearts break off-screen. Affection isn’t gone; it’s just off-camera.

The audience has stopped believing in sincere arcs. Vulnerability looks like poor editing. The modern protagonist protects their image more than their heart. It’s not that affection has vanished; it’s that intimacy no longer feels narratively safe.

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Act IV: The Rewrite

We are longing for something quieter, truer — a return to co-authored storytelling. Not codependence, but collaboration. Not possession, but partnership.

A new kind of intimacy might look like:

• Transparent communication instead of strategy.

• Private arcs instead of public performance.

• Sincerity treated as bravery, not naivety.

• Love as mutual authorship again.

“I want your life to matter to mine.
I want to build something that neither of us can walk away from unchanged.”

The irony? The more we fear being the one who cares, the harder it becomes to find someone who cares back.

Maybe love isn’t embarrassing. Maybe it’s just rare. Maybe the bravest thing we can do now — in an age of performative detachment — is to believe in a story worth finishing together.