Love in the Time of Talking Stages

In this generation, relationships start and end before they even begin. Welcome to the era of “talking stages,” where titles are out of style, and commitment is as unreliable as a bad Wi-Fi connection. It’s a liminal space where flirtation thrives, boundaries blur, and every interaction feels like a “choose your own adventure” story—except most of the paths lead to disappointment. Relationships don’t start with intentions or promises anymore—they start with late-night texts, a couple of Snap streaks, and playlists that feel like promises. But promises, like playlists, are often on shuffle.

I’ve had my fair share of talking stages. Some guys surprised me, noticing things about me I didn’t even think were worth noticing—like how I twist my hair when I’m nervous or how I can’t help but laugh at my own bad jokes. Others? They were only in it for themselves, breadcrumbing their way through shallow conversations, expecting more than I was willing to give. And yet, no matter how many talking stages I’ve been through, I always find myself circling back to “Salt.”

“Salt” wasn’t extraordinary. He didn’t sweep me off my feet or leave me breathless. But “Salt” was the first. He met me before I learned how to guard myself, before I started filtering my texts or second-guessing my worth. Back then, I didn’t know what it felt like to feel chipped away by half-hearted connections or quiet disappointments. I don’t even think I really like him anymore, but I can’t seem to let him go. And maybe it’s not him I’m holding onto—maybe it’s the version of me who existed when he was around.

It’s not just me. My brother is caught in his own cycle of heartbreak. He dated “Kassandra,” a girl who was as toxic as their relationship. He cheated on her more than once, thinking that made him the villain. But now, he’s the one trying to change, trying to be better—and she’s the one who cheated. She’s already moved on to someone new, while he’s stuck, trying to thug it out like it doesn’t matter. But it’s 1 p.m. on Christmas Eve, and he still hasn’t come out of his room.

It’s ironic how love—or whatever we call it—ties us to people we don’t even want back. My brother doesn’t miss “Kassandra,” not really. I don’t miss “Salt,” either.What we both miss is the version of ourselves who felt whole, unguarded, and unbroken.

I think that’s the hardest part about moving on—not letting go of the person, but letting go of who you were when they were still in your life. The girl who didn’t overanalyze every text, the guy who didn’t feel the weight of every mistake.

And as I sit here, staring at another “wyd?” text from someone I’ll probably never feel anything real for, I couldn’t help but wonder: “Are we all just chasing people we think will make us feel complete? Or are we really just searching for the pieces of ourselves we lost along the way?”

Source of spelling and editing: google and chat gpt