Save The Romance From Dying
Many people believe that old-school romance is dead. Romance today feels too transactional, too pragmatic, too practical. People no longer have the patience of the past. They want decisions now. They follow a checklist. If you don’t meet the criteria, you’re out, replaced by someone else, and the process repeats. People break up over minor inconveniences. We have near-zero tolerance for personalities that differ from our own.
So we look back fondly at old-school romance, believing people had it better then. Love, we think, used to be beautiful. But there’s a flaw in this hypothesis. Old romance appears charming because we focus only on the stories that survived. This is a classic case of survivorship bias. The couples who grew old together are the ones who fared well; naturally, they share their stories, and we assume that was the norm. Films amplify the same illusion. Those who failed at love rarely tell their stories, so their failures disappear from memory. We begin to believe the past was filled only with success.
That’s one reason nostalgia feels so comforting. Another aspect we conveniently ignore is that much of the romance we admire from earlier times existed in anticipation. I call it anticipatory romance. People would meet once and spend weeks thinking about the next meeting. They imagined futures together. A single letter was treasured—read and reread for hidden meanings, for hints between the lines. With less information, the mind filled the gaps with imagination. In those moments, flaws faded into the background. Suspicion had little room to grow. Attention was consumed by what-if scenarios.
Today, things are different. Letters are gone. Anticipation has thinned. There are instant messages—too many, too frequent. There are video calls for instant closeness. There are cheap flights for weekend meetings. There are apps to search for people, eliminating the need to socialise, to learn behaviour, to present one’s best self. Social manners are no longer taught; instead, we are told to accept people exactly as they are—even when they are at their worst.
In such a landscape, romance has little space to breathe. There are no imagined futures, no waiting, no longing for the moment someone finally appears before us. Familiarity arrives too quickly, which is why romance feels rushed. There is no urgency to cherish time together because opportunities are no longer scarce. When there is no fear of losing the moment, we stop trying to see the person despite their differences. When time and opportunity are limited, you take what you can get. When they are unlimited, you take only what you want.
And familiarity breeds contempt. We know each other so well, so soon, that we don’t know how to move forward. The moment real differences surface, we falter—because we were never taught how to handle difference. Women seek advice from friends who have never sustained long-term relationships; what kind of guidance can that produce? Men turn either to women for formulas on attraction or to womanisers who reduce women to objects. What outcome can such counsel yield? Certainly not romance.
We remain perpetually on edge in relationships. Being liked isn’t enough; you must remain likable every single day. One bad day, and the fear of abandonment sets in. Marriages unravel over trivial matters like money. Infidelity rises because people hesitate to commit to something larger than themselves. Love cannot coexist with conditions. You either love someone, or you don’t. Quirks can be tolerated; deeper issues must be worked through—starting with oneself.
We must stop trying to control the world around us. Be part of the world. Move with its flow. Live one day at a time. It is this urge to control that makes us impose our will on others, and it almost always ends in ruin. We must learn to accept people as they are. Two people will see the world differently. Their biology is different. Their hormones differ. Their fears, insecurities, and mental makeup are not the same. They cannot approach life identically. The only truly shared space between two people is romance—and that is the glue that must be consciously built and carefully maintained. You cannot demand that someone behave exactly as you do, no matter how reasonable you believe yourself to be.
What matters most is accountability—starting with yourself. Do not fear difficult questions. Do not shy away from confronting the inner monsters you’ve been harboring. Facing the truth is the only way to become comfortable in your own skin, the only way to genuinely love yourself. And unless you love yourself deeply enough, you will never truly love someone else.