Addiction to Almost Love

So, science officially declared that one in four of us is gonna die alone, probably surrounded by cats we named after Harry Potter characters. And honestly? I get it. It’s not that love is dead. It’s that we’ve replaced it with a low-budget, high-anxiety reality show where we’re both the contestant and the unhinged host.

Let’s be real: modern dating is just emotional gambling with a worse payout. Your phone is the slot machine. Every notification? That’s you pulling the lever, hoping for the jackpot of a text back. The prize isn’t even a person anymore, it’s the dizzy, stupid high of the “maybe”. The “what if?” Certainty is boring. Stability is for librarians. We want the thrill of the chase, the person who leaves us on read for three business days. We’re junkies for the anxiety.

I’ve been the main character in this cringe-fest. Phone glued to my hand, conducting a full-on FBI investigation on whether “k” means he’s mad or just lazy. Feeling my soul leave my body when they ghost, then getting a full-on dopamine hit from a single “haha.” The worst part? Half the time, I didn’t even like the guy. I was just addicted to the game.

And just when you think it can’t get more unhinged, enter: Matchmaking events. Imagine if Tinder and a corporate networking event had a baby, and that baby was force-fed biryani.

You walk in and the whole vibe is instantly competitive. Aunties scanning the crowd like scouts at a draft, and the guys? Walking CVs lol.  “Aslamalaikum, I’m Ahmad, 29 years old, software engineer. My hobbies are going to the gym and investing.” Bhai, that’s not a bio, that’s a LinkedIn notification. It’s like everyone forgot this is supposed to be about connection, not a job fair where your biodata is the resume and your personality didn’t make it past HR. 

We keep falling for these talking stages, these almost-ships, these rishta-politics because they all feed the same beast: the addiction to uncertainty. Our brains are wired to prefer the chaotic slot machine over the boring, guaranteed win.

That’s why the nice ones, the ones who text back on time, who say what they mean, who don’t play mind games get left on delivered. They’re too… available. Too peaceful. And our traumatized brains are like, “Hold up. This stability feels sus. Where’s the drama? Where’s the 3-day silent treatment? This can’t be love.”

We’ve been gaslit by rom-coms and desi dramas into thinking love has to be a struggle. That it needs villains and plot twists and grand gestures. If it’s calm, it must be boring. If it’s easy, it must be fake.

So we end up in this pathetic paradox: you’re chasing someone who gives you anxiety, while someone chill is chasing you, and you’re ignoring them because they’re not giving you that toxic ick you’ve come to crave. It’s a whole circus, and we’re all just clowns running in circles.

But after my PhD in Almost-Love, here’s the tea I’ve spilled on myself: real love isn’t one thing. It exists in two modes.

Stage 1: The Illusion. The main character energy. The spark. The world fades away when you’re together. You feel chosen, seen, like you’re in a movie. It’s magic. It’s a high. And it’s incredibly addictive.

Stage 2: The Reality Check. The magic’s Wi-Fi is down. You see the baggage. The bad days. The boring silences. The fact that he leaves his socks on the floor and she hates your favorite show. It’s not fireworks; it’s maintenance. It’s choosing to show up when the filter is off.

The healthy kind of love? It’s not choosing one mode. It’s the ability to cherish stage 1, but build your home in stage 2. It breathes. Some days are light and floaty. Some days are heavy. And you figure it out together.

That’s the goal. Not the chaotic high, not the addictive almost. I don’t want the person who makes my phone light up with anxiety. I want the person who feels like putting my phone down. The one who sees the unedited, no-filter, 4K version of me—flaws, baggage, and all and doesn’t just swipe left. They choose to stay. Because real love isn’t the chase. It’s calm after it.