For me, no.
There’s nothing casual about intimacy. I’m a woman who loves to love. I believe in growing in partnership, in being chosen, in being trusted enough to hold another person’s heart—fully. To see them in their glory and in the parts they’ve been taught to hide.
Love isn’t casual. Intimacy isn’t casual.
And I hate that we belong to a generation that keeps pretending it is.
Everything is flings now. Situationships. Temporary people with temporary intentions. Connections designed not to last long enough to hurt. People we won’t remember when we look back at the timeline of everyone we’ve ever loved—because nobody’s really loving anymore.
I’ve realized that I’m constitutionally incapable of pretending intimacy is disposable. Casual isn’t appealing to me—it’s just dishonest. And the truth is, I genuinely wish I could do it. I wish I could adapt. I wish I could move through a culture that treats connection like a temporary app subscription without feeling like an alien in it, even though I know I’m not wrong for feeling this way.
That’s what makes it hard for me to give myself to anyone. My time. My body. My heart. Because is it ever casual?
No.
And I’m done pretending I can be.
I also want to be clear: this isn’t about wondering why men don’t want this kind of love. That question doesn’t haunt me the way people might assume. What haunts me is something quieter and harder to admit—why do I keep doubting the very thing that makes me me? Why do I keep shrinking myself into roles that will never fit, hoping that if I soften my edges enough, I’ll finally belong?
I’m not built for banter that doesn’t lead to a late-night kiss. I’m not built for hugs that disappear when the day gets too heavy. I’m not built for half-connections or low-stakes affection.
I’m built for star-crossing, soul-stretching, slow-burn love.
The kind that takes its time. The kind that stays.
And this isn’t just about romance. It spills into my friendships, my work, the way I move through the world. I don’t know how to love in fragments. I don’t know how to care without depth. I don’t know how to show up casually for things that matter.
I don’t run from love because I fear closeness. I run because I refuse to shrink the meaning of it. What I’ve come to understand is that this isn’t confusion—it’s discernment. It’s my discernment colliding with a culture built on emotional minimalism. And that collision has left me feeling a little lost… but also strangely content.
I’m okay on my own. Truly. I’ve made peace with my solitude. But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong for wanting more. It doesn’t mean I need less love. It just means I’m unwilling to dilute it.
Love looks different for everyone.
And for me, it will always look like a 90s slow jam. A slow burn. A love that deepens instead of disappears.
So is it ever casual?
For me, no.
It never was. It never will be.
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