Ur Favorite Anti-Cupid

Dating these days feels like playing a game where no one wants to admit they’re keeping score.

Somewhere between casual hookups and full-blown relationships lies the gray area we’ve all come to know too well: the situationship. It’s undefined, unscripted, and unendingly confusing. And yet, like moths to a flame, we can’t seem to stay away.

At first, it seems perfect. You’re texting all day, sharing memes, and maybe even going on cute little dates. There’s chemistry, comfort, and ambiguity to keep you guessing. But over time, that same ambiguity feels less exciting and more exhausting. Are we dating? Are we exclusive? Are we just really close friends who occasionally kiss? It’s like trying to build a house on the sand: whenever you’ve found solid footing, the tide comes in and washes it all away.

I couldn’t help but wonder: when did commitment become so terrifying?

Blame it on our generation’s obsession with keeping our options open. We’re terrified of missing out, so we cling to half-relationships like they’re the perfect balance between freedom and intimacy.

We tell ourselves it’s modern, it’s progressive, it’s what everyone else is doing. But the truth is, it’s exhausting. You’re constantly analyzing every text, every interaction, every pause in the conversation, looking for clues about what it all really means.

And then there’s the part no one tells you about: the heartbreak of realizing you’re more invested than they are. It’s not the kind of heartbreak that comes with a breakup: it’s quieter, lonelier, harder to explain. You can’t grieve something that was never officially yours, and yet there you are, lying in bed at 3 a.m., wondering where it all went wrong.

But here’s the thing about situationships: they’re not inherently bad.

They can be fun, exciting, even fulfilling, as long as you both want the same thing. The problem is when one person wants more, and the other is content to stay in the gray. That’s when it stops being fun and starts being a slow, painful unraveling.

So what’s the solution?

Maybe it’s time we stop being so afraid of the labels we’re so quick to avoid. Maybe it’s time we start having honest conversations about what we want and what we're looking for. Perhaps it’s time to stop settling for half-relationships and start holding out for the real thing.

Growing up with one foot in two different worlds is like walking a tightrope. You constantly try to balance but never land on solid ground. My mom is Cuban, my dad is white, and I’ve spent my whole life somewhere in the in-between.

To some people, I’m not Cuban enough. To others, I’m too Cuban to blend in. And so, I float, part of both worlds yet belonging fully to neither.

At family gatherings on my mom’s side, I’m the one who struggles through broken Spanish while my cousins chatter away fluently, their words flowing like music. Meanwhile, my Spanish feels like a scratched record. I’ll get a few sentences before someone switches to English for my sake, like an unspoken acknowledgment of my outsider status. It’s not their fault. They’re trying to include me. But every time it happens, I feel like I’m waving a little white flag that says I don’t fully belong here.

Then there’s the other side. My dad’s white, suburban world, where being Cuban makes me “exotic.” Cue the jokes about how I must be able to dance salsa or cook amazing black beans (spoiler: I can’t do either). It’s well-meaning, but it’s isolating in its own way. People expect you to be a cultural ambassador for a heritage you still figure out for yourself.

I couldn’t help but wonder, what does it mean to truly belong when you’re never “enough” of anything?

Even my appearance is a constant point of contradiction. My cousins on my mom’s side have that “Hispanic look,” with tan skin, dark hair, and striking features. Meanwhile, I’m pale, freckled, blonde hair, and perpetually asked, “Wait, you’re Cuban?” as if my heritage needs a visual disclaimer. It’s the question that leaves you scrambling to prove yourself as if your DNA isn’t enough without a tan to back it up.

But the real struggle isn’t just about how others see me. It’s about how I see myself. I’ve spent years feeling like a guest at my family’s cultural table, smiling through moments where I feel like an outsider to something that’s supposed to be mine.

On the flip side, I’ve had to explain my Cuban-ness to people who’ve only ever seen the “white” half of me, like it’s a secret I forgot to disclose.

There’s this unspoken pressure to perform, to prove you’re Cuban or not too white. But how do you perform something that’s just who you are? It’s not a switch you flip. It’s your life, your family, your roots.

The truth is, identity isn’t a perfect puzzle. It’s messy. It’s fluid. It doesn’t always fit into neat categories. Being a white Cuban doesn’t mean I’m less Cuban, and it doesn’t mean I have to prove myself to anyone, least of all the versions of me I thought I had to be.

There’s something about living with a roommate who’s more like a distant acquaintance with occasional benefits, like good conversation or the occasional late-night snack run.

However, the lines get blurry when that roommate happens to be a friend. And if you’re anything like me, you start wondering how someone can think they’re better than everyone else while still sitting at home in their sweats, smoking cigarettes inside.

I couldn’t help but wonder: what happens when your “cool” roommate thinks she’s way cooler than she actually is?

My roommate, let’s call her "Marlboro," has mastered the art of acting like she’s too cool for everyone else. She smokes inside because, apparently, that’s her thing, and she acts like it makes her some kind of rebel. She’s the type who’ll talk about how much she doesn’t care about “going out,” as if sitting at home in a haze of smoke somehow makes her superior to the rest of us. I’ve watched her sit on the couch, scrolling through social media, while the rest of us live our lives, and somehow she thinks she’s above it all.

She’s the girl who’ll put you down in the name of humor, calling you “basic” for enjoying a night out, while she talks about how she “just can’t with the party scene.” Meanwhile, she’ll light up another cigarette and tell you how refreshing it is to just stay in, like she’s some kind of underground artist with real depth. She somehow thinks this makes her cool, but I can’t help but roll my eyes when she says it.

But what gets me is how she’s still my friend in her twisted way. She's the one who'll tell me to "chill out" when I get frustrated, but also the one who throws subtle insults disguised as jokes. “You should come to my place sometime, but you’ll probably hate it,” she smirks.

How do you respond to that?

At some point, I realized there’s a difference between being “too cool” for something and just being stuck. Being the type of person who tries so hard to convince the world (and herself) that they’re too cool to join in but isolates themselves from the things that matter.

So when does it stop being about what she thinks makes her cool, and more about what makes her, well, just a little annoying? It’s hard to say, because when you’re living with someone who insists they’re different but makes you feel smaller every time they open their mouth, you start to ask: Am I still friends with this person or am I just tolerating her?

Sundays smelled like incense and wooden pews polished with decades of prayer. I can still hear the faint echo of hymns, see the flicker of candlelight, and feel the weight of guilt for reasons I couldn’t quite articulate at seven years old.

That’s the thing about being raised Catholic: the faith gets stitched into your soul before you’re old enough to understand what it means to carry it.

But as I got older, I couldn’t help but feel a growing tension between the beliefs I was taught to hold sacred and the values I’d come to embrace through my own experiences.

I believe in gay rights, in a woman’s right to choose, in love, autonomy, and equality. And yet, every time I feel myself pulling away from the Church, there’s that little voice whispering, What if you’re wrong?

Catholicism has a way of leaving its mark on you, like a tattoo you didn’t consent to. It’s the rhythm of the "Our Father" when you’re lying awake at night, the reflexive genuflect when you pass a church, the guilt you can’t quite shake when you skip Mass on Christmas Eve. It’s part of who you are, whether you like it or not.

Growing up Catholic means you’re taught that suffering is sacred, sacrifice is noble, and questioning is dangerous. It means learning to fold your hands in prayer while silently wrestling with questions you’re afraid to ask out loud. Why would a loving God condemn someone for who they love? Why are women barred from the altar? Why does the Church preach compassion yet so often fail to practice it?

I couldn’t help but wonder: could faith and freedom coexist, or was I destined to always feel like I was betraying one to honor the other?

I’m not angry with my faith. In fact, I still find beauty in its rituals and comfort in its teachings about love, forgiveness, and the enduring presence of something greater than ourselves. But I can’t reconcile the faith I grew up with and the one I’m building now. To me, loving my neighbor means standing up for their right to marry, choose, and live freely. It means rejecting the parts of the Church that prioritize dogma over dignity.

And so, I find myself in a strange in-between space. Religious, but not devout. Faithful, but not obedient. I still light candles for loved ones, cross myself in moments of fear, and feel a pang of something...guilt? Nostalgia? Both? But I’ve stopped looking for God in the pews of a Church that won’t make space for the people I love.

Instead, I find God in the courage of a woman reclaiming her body, in the resilience of someone fighting for their right to love, in the quiet strength it takes to choose kindness over judgment. I don’t think that makes me any less Catholic. If anything, it feels like I’m living the faith I was taught, stripped of its contradictions.

Leaving the Church, or at least growing away from it, isn’t about rejecting everything it stands for. It’s about refusing to stay silent when it conflicts with what you know to be right. It’s about carrying the parts that nourish your soul while leaving behind the ones that weigh it down.

There I was, sitting at my laptop with a cup of black coffee (definitely not Postum), scrolling through my text messages like a modern-day archaeologist digging up old romantic relics. Among the names that popped up, a surprising pattern emerged: an unusually high number of Mormon boys, exes, almost lovers, and those flirtatious what-could-have-beens.

And suddenly, I couldn’t help but wonder: are Mormon boys the real sexual revolutionaries of our time?

Let’s get one thing straight. On paper, they’re the poster children for chastity, commitment, and a life so pure that it could probably outshine a bar of Ivory soap. They’re the guys who spent two years knocking on strangers’ doors, wearing suits in the summer heat, talking about Jesus, and probably never uttering a curse word.

But take that same boy off his mission and put him in the dating world of New York City or Los Angeles, and it’s as if the leash comes off. Suddenly, you’re dealing with a guy who knows exactly how far he can go before hitting that invisible line of sin. And spoiler alert: he’s running full speed at that line.

Now, before you start drafting your complaints to the bishop, hear me out. This isn’t about judgment. It’s about curiosity. Mormon boys are like a tightly wound rubber band, and the tension between their religious upbringing and their undeniable human desires makes them magnetic. Forbidden fruit is always the most delicious, and nobody understands that better than someone who’s been taught not to touch it.

They’re also, somehow, always the cutest. These are the boys who look like they just stepped out of a Hallmark movie, the ones who would bring your mom flowers the first time they meet her and tell your dad how much they admire his golf swing. They have this wholesome, gentlemanly charm that makes you want to introduce them to your family, even as you secretly wonder if he’s imagining doing very unwholesome things when you hold hands under the table.

When it comes to sexual energy, Mormon boys are Olympic athletes competing in a sport they’re not even allowed to play. They know all the moves, deep eye contact, lingering touches, and the kind of suggestive banter that would make even a prostitute blush. Their version of foreplay is playing a game of “How close can we get to the fire without getting burned?”

And let’s not forget the loopholes. You haven’t lived until you’ve had a boy explain “soaking” with a straight face or tell you how "everything but" is technically still pure.

It’s like watching a religious version of a legal drama: objection, sustained, overruled, and yet incredibly sexy.

But there’s also something deeper going on. For these boys, every touch, every kiss, every whispered confession feels heightened, like it’s happening under a spotlight. When you grow up with rules about what you can’t do, every small act of rebellion feels like a revolution. And in a world where casual hookups are as common as bad Tinder bios, that intensity is intoxicating.

So, what is it about Mormon boys that makes them the most sexual? Maybe it’s the paradox of restraint and release. Maybe it’s the thrill of dancing on the edge of what’s allowed. Or maybe it’s just that in a city full of people trying to be cool, their earnestness is the ultimate aphrodisiac.

Whatever it is, one thing’s for sure: when it comes to sexual energy, these boys are anything but “elderly.”

And just like that, I realized that sometimes, the people who seem the most innocent have the most delicious secrets. Who knew that behind those buttoned-up shirts and polite smiles, Mormon boys were harboring a fire that could rival Sodom and Gomorrah?

Sex and college are like peanut butter and jelly: messy, sticky, but undeniably delicious when paired just right. Lately, I’ve noticed a trend among the Generation Z dating elite: relationships without the “R” or worse....relationships that only exist between the sheets.

Take my friend Lindsey, who recently started seeing a guy named Evan. After three weeks of flirty dinners, steamy nights, and text messages that could rival a Nora Ephron screenplay, Evan dropped this bombshell: “I’m not really into labels.” Now, Lindsey was no stranger to modern dating jargon, but “not into labels” was code for “let’s keep this casual while I reap all the relationship perks.”

This got me thinking: when did intimacy become a subscription model? You can cancel anytime, and no one owes anyone an explanation.

In a world where swiping right is more common than shaking hands, sex has somehow evolved into the appetizer instead of the main course.

But is this liberating...or just lonely?

The modern dating scene seems to have spawned a new kind of relationship purgatory, where we’re not sure if we’re exclusive, experimenting, or just two warm bodies enjoying some PG-13 Netflix. It’s sex without the emotional strings, but also without the comfort of knowing someone’s really there when it counts.

Maybe it’s time to bring back the DTR (Define The Relationship) talk: less of a PowerPoint presentation and more of a casual check-in. After all, sex is great, but connection is what keeps us alive.

Knowing where you stand is essential whether you’re catching feelings or just catching an Uber the morning after, even if it’s just for one night.

We’ve all heard it, right? "I’m such a girl’s girl." It’s the phrase thrown around at brunches, during sleepovers, or after a long chat about what it means to support other women. And sure, it sounds great on paper. The idea of a close-knit sisterhood where we always have each other’s backs is one we’ve been sold since high school. But let’s be honest for a second—how often does that hold up?

Girl code is sacred. It’s about loyalty, respect, and supporting each other, no matter what. It’s the unspoken rule that says, "If she’s in a bad relationship, I’m there for her." "If she needs advice, I’ve got her back." "If another girl talks down to her, I’m stepping in." And it’s not just about the big moments: it’s about the little things, too. Lending her your sweater when she’s cold, hyping her up before an interview, or even texting to say “you got this” before her big date.

But there’s always that one curveball. The moment when things shift, the "girl’s girl" becomes a girl's girl, maybe not so much.

Enter: a 5’7 frat guy.

Or it's a girl who just makes you feel…intimidated.

It’s happened to the best of us. One moment, your best friend is defending you with a level of fierceness only another woman could understand, and the next, she’s siding with a guy…any guy who barely knows her favorite color, let alone her heart. Or maybe it's when another woman shows up on the scene, someone new and shiny, and suddenly, the bonds of girl code start to fray. It’s as though the presence of a man or the competitive nature of another girl instantly overrides any loyalty they once had.

I couldn’t help but wonder: why do so many women claim to be the ultimate “girl’s girl” until a guy comes into the picture?

Where’s the loyalty when things get complicated, insecurities come into play, or a new woman enters the room?

It’s frustrating because we all know how hard it can be to be a woman. Society already has enough ways to make us feel less than. And yet, when we should stand side by side, we often find ourselves competing. Instead of helping each other up, we knock each other down.

Girl code should never be negotiable. It’s about having each other’s backs when the world doesn’t. But sometimes, the stakes get weirdly high hen a boy or a new girl enters the equation, And for some, that camaraderie fades into something a little less supportive and much more cutthroat.

But here’s the thing: if we’re ever going to change the narrative, we must be the women who stand firm in the girl code. No man, no matter how charming or cute, should break the bond between us. No girl should make us feel insecure or small enough to put her down. The truth is, true girl power is about standing united, not divided.

So, to all the girls who say they’re “girls girls,” let’s make it more than a catchphrase. Let’s make it a rule. Because the second we let a guy or another girl tear that code apart, we’ve lost something much bigger than a friendship. We’ve lost our ability to lift each other in the first place.

In college, it seems everyone’s either in a relationship, casually hooking up, or pretending they’ve figured it all out. Meanwhile, I’m over here wondering if I can be intimate without overthinking it to death.

The thing about college intimacy is that it’s not as sexy as it’s cracked up to be. I mean, yes, there’s a lot of kissing, flirting, and late-night conversations that seem to have the potential for something more, but the second it becomes real, it’s like a switch flips.

Suddenly, you’re wondering if they like you, if you’re good enough if you’re doing it right. Did you kiss too fast? Did you say the wrong thing? Is it weird that you feel like you don’t know what you’re doing?

I couldn’t help but wonder: Why is it that the closer you get to someone, the more terrifying it feels?

Intimacy in college isn’t just about being physically close; it’s about being emotionally open. And for some of us, that’s the hardest part. The vulnerability of it all feels almost like a trap. What if they don’t like you as much as you want them? What if you’re too into it, and they’re just passing through?

It doesn’t help that college hookup culture has turned everything into a game. Everyone’s supposed to be “chill,” right? Like, don’t care too much, don’t get too attached, don’t look too interested. But inside, you’re spiraling. Because, at some point, being emotionally detached doesn’t feel so freeing...it feels empty.

And let’s not even talk about being inexperienced. The pressure to know exactly what to do when the moment comes is overwhelming. We’re all supposed to know how to handle the situation, how to be cool, how to be confident. But what if you’re still figuring it out? What if your “experience” is all in your head, and not in reality?

What about the moments after? The ones where you lie awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if it was enough, if you did enough, or if you were too much. Why is it that the fear of not being good enough seems to only intensify the more intimate things get?

And yet, there’s still this desire to keep going, to keep trying, to keep doing. Why? Because maybe, just maybe, the mess of it all—the awkwardness, the confusion, the unspoken rules...is what makes it feel real.

In the end, college intimacy is less about perfection and more about embracing the fear, the insecurity, and the vulnerability. It’s about being scared but still diving in anyway.

Because maybe that’s what intimacy really is: not some grand, flawless performance, but a beautiful mess where we’re all trying to figure it out, one awkward step at a time.

There’s something so infuriatingly obvious about the beauty standards we face in college...especially when it comes to the big difference between how men and women are judged. Almost like there's a set of rules for the guys and a completely different, often brutal, set for the girls.

These 5'8 man-children can roll out of bed in sweatpants, sporting a three-day beard and hair that looks like they just got struck by lightning...and still get compliments or worse...attention.

Meanwhile, women? We must look perfect, from head to toe, or we’re invisible.

College men can walk into a frat party wearing a wrinkled shirt and still be praised for their “effortless charm.” They can skip the skincare routine and still have a cute girlfriend at the bar by the end of the night.

But we...oh no.

We need to have flawless skin, hair that looks like it belongs in a shampoo commercial, and an outfit that screams, “I tried but not too hard” (which is honestly the most challenging part). God forbid we have one bad hair day or wear the wrong shoes. Suddenly, we’re “not trying hard enough” or “not putting in the effort.”

It’s exhausting.

And then, there’s the worst part: men can do nothing to deserve attention and still get it. They can be out of shape, messy, and utterly disinterested in hygiene...but throw on a snapback, crack a couple of jokes, and boom! Suddenly, they're the life of the party.

Meanwhile, we’ve spent hours curating our Instagram feeds, putting in a solid two hours at the gym, and getting ready for a night out, only to be ignored by the guys we’re actually interested in.

Why? Because in college, it feels like guys get a free pass, while we’re expected to be perfect. We’re judged for the smallest imperfections, whether it’s a tiny pimple or a messy ponytail.

I couldn’t help but wonder why men don’t face the same level of scrutiny?

Why does a woman need to be flawless to have a chance, while men can show up looking like they rolled out of a garbage bag and still end up with someone’s number?

Are college guys looking for girlfriends, or are they just hoping to find someone who will do everything their moms used to do? Sometimes, it feels like the only thing standing between a college guy and a relationship is that he doesn’t want to be in one. Instead, he wants someone to remind him to eat, keep track of his laundry, and gasp!

Occasionally send a text that’s more than just, “U up?”

Here’s the thing: college hookup culture is thriving, but it’s not just about hooking up anymore. These guys want all the perks of a girlfriend: someone to take care of them emotionally, remind them to study, and make plans for cute dates...but none of the responsibility.

They’ll want the good morning texts and the cuddles during a movie. Still, when talking about anything more profound, like committing, they disappear faster than you can say “friends with benefits.”

And let’s be honest, I don’t even want a boyfriend. At least not in the way we’ve been taught to expect. College is about living in the moment, figuring things out, and keeping things light. But it’s exhausting when these guys act like they want more but then pull back the second things get a little serious.

Why?

Because they’re still stuck in this “I want a girlfriend but not the work that comes with it” mentality.

The problem with hookup culture, and what I’ve noticed lately, is that guys will always take the perks without the effort. It’s like they want the intimacy but none of the messiness of having a real, emotionally mature relationship.

They’ll act like you’re their girlfriend when it’s convenient—showing up for hangouts and dinners...but disappear when it’s time to discuss the future.

So what’s the deal? They want the fun parts but can’t handle the “serious talk” moments.

There’s something oddly comforting about watching Lady Bird: the rawness of the relationship between Christine and her mom hits so close to home that it feels like I’m staring into a mirror. The way they love each other one moment and fight the next, the complexity of that bond, the tension, the unspoken words...it all feels so familiar.

It’s like a reflection of my relationship with my mom, one that’s always been a delicate balance of strain and love, where everything simultaneously feels fragile and incredibly strong.

Like Christine, I’ve spent much time feeling like my mom is too much. She’s always been there, hovering in the background, offering unsolicited advice, and pointing out my flaws in a way that never feels as gentle as I need. It’s easy to get lost in the frustration of it all, to feel like she’s standing in the way of my growth, independence, and freedom.

Every time she says, “Are you sure that’s the best decision?” or “I don’t know if that’s what I would have done,” it’s like she’s trying to pull the reins on a life I’m trying to live for myself. And let me tell you, the teenage rebellion I felt in Lady Bird? I know it. I’ve lived it.

But here’s the thing...like Christine and her mom, there’s something deeper beneath all the friction. Love. The kind that’s messy and imperfect. The kind that’s almost suffocating at times but always comes from wanting the best for you, even when it doesn’t feel like it. I’ve spent years thinking that my mom’s constant presence, her need to “help,” was just another form of control. But in moments of quiet reflection, I see it for what it is: care. She pushes me to be better and more and stop settling. Maybe it’s not always delivered most gracefully, but it’s her way of loving me.

There’s also something about how Lady Bird captures that period of growth...when you’re trying so hard to become your own person but feeling constantly tethered to the woman who raised you. My mom has always been a bit of a guide, the one who holds the map and tells me where I should go, but I’ve never been one to follow directions easily. Like Christine, I wanted to create my own path and live life on my own terms.

But I didn’t realize back then, and maybe what Christine didn’t fully see either, that our mothers aren’t just obstacles in our way; they’re trying to prepare us for what’s out there to help us navigate the unknown.

There are days when I feel frustrated, like I’m being held back by her need to micromanage, to be in my business. But then, there are the moments when I get home from a long day, feeling like the world is against me, and she’s there with her unshakable belief in me, quietly pushing me to keep going. She never says it outright, but I can see it in the way she makes my favorite dinner after a tough week, in the way she always remembers the little things that matter to me. That’s love, too.

It’s funny...when I was younger, I couldn’t wait to escape. Getting away from her would be the key to finding myself and defining my life. But now, I realize the truth is more complicated. I don’t need to escape to be who I’m meant to be. I need to learn how to live with and without her and embrace the lessons she’s trying to teach me without feeling stifled by them. It’s a delicate balance that’s not always easy to find.

I don’t think I’ll ever fully understand my mom in the way that I wish I could. Our relationship is one of those constantly evolving things that ebbs and flows, shifting between love and frustration, between wanting to be close and needing space. And that’s okay. Because what Lady Bird reminds me of is this: it’s not about the perfect relationship. It’s not about being perfectly understood or even perfectly loved. It’s about knowing that despite the clashes, the distance, the misunderstandings...there’s always that thread of love holding everything together, even when it feels like it might snap.

One day, I’ll look back and realize how much I needed all of it: the advice, the nagging, the overbearing love. Because deep down, I know it was all part of her way of helping me become the woman I’m supposed to be. And when that day comes, I’ll probably wish I had embraced it sooner, just like Christine does when she finally sees her mother for who she really is.

It’s hard to imagine a place that’s supposed to feel like home but often feels more like a battleground. The sorority, my so-called “sisters,” who should be the ones supporting me, lifting me up, have, more often than not, felt like the ones pushing me down.

I go out. I party. I have fun, but it’s not just about the fun. I have a job, I get good grades, and I work hard for everything I have. I’m not just the girl you see at a frat party, dancing and laughing. I’m also the girl working late nights at a part-time job and staying up until the early hours to finish assignments. I’m managing it all, yet it somehow never feels like enough.

These are supposed to be my sisters, the women I turn to when I need advice, a laugh, or even a night in. But instead, they’ve become my quiet enemies. I’ve spent months wondering what I’ve done wrong...Why don’t I feel welcome in a group that’s supposed to be a support system? I try to be friendly, show up, and be fun, but it’s like my energy doesn’t quite fit in with theirs.

Maybe it’s how I’m perceived: always put together, always “on.” It can be exhausting, but it’s who I am. I’m proud of the balance I’ve struck, of enjoying myself without letting my life fall apart. But in my sorority, it feels like the more I try to fit in, the more I become a target.

They think I’m the one who’s “too much”: the girl who parties too hard, works too much, smiles too brightly. But they don’t see the cracks, the moments where I wonder why I feel so distant from the people who are supposed to have my back.

I get it...they probably think I’m a threat. Maybe it’s because I managed to juggle it all. Perhaps they see my social media, polished outfits, and seemingly perfect life and think it’s all an act.

But they don’t know that I’m just trying to make everything work, and maybe that makes me look like I don’t need them.

The truth is, I do. I need them more than they know. But every time I try to get close, it feels like I’m being pushed further away. These women, who are supposed to be my support system, my sisters, seem to only notice me when I’m a threat to their carefully constructed version of “perfect.”

It’s hard not to wonder if they’re jealous of how I manage to hold everything together. If I’m the one who’s too much of everything: too successful, too social, too fun. But if I say that, if I even dare to suggest they might envy me, I sound like the worst kind of egotistical. So, I’m left in the middle, balancing my desire to fit in with my need to stay true to who I am.

There’s nothing quite like a Sunday night to make you crave comfort. A cozy blanket, a good book, or maybe just someone who makes you feel safe. Instead, I found myself standing in my bedroom, fresh out of the shower, dripping water onto the floor, as Mr. Orientation sat on the edge of my bed.

Mr. Orientation, as I’ll call him, was that guy everyone noticed during college orientation week. Charismatic without trying, he had a way of making everyone feel special, like they were the only person in the room. Girls loved him, guys admired him, and professors probably bent grading curves for him. He was the kind of guy you wanted to be around, even when you knew better.

We met during that dizzying first week of college when everyone’s pretending to have it all figured out. Late-night walks, coffee runs, library sessions: he made me feel like I was in a movie montage of falling in love.

And before I knew it, I was hooked.

But here’s the thing about Mr. Orientation: he thrived on attention. He needed it the way most people need air. He didn’t just like being liked...he needed to be adored. And for a while, I convinced myself I was enough for him.

The first crack in our story came when I glanced at his phone one night and saw it: a WikiHow article titled “How to Break Up with Your Girlfriend.” I should’ve ended things then and there, but I didn’t. I told myself it didn’t mean anything, that I could hold on to him a little longer.

And then came that Sunday night. No dramatic speeches, no grand gestures...just Mr. Orientation sitting stiffly on the edge of my bed, mumbling about how he wasn’t “what I needed.”

Two weeks later, he was hiking with my sorority sister and her friends, including a girl I went to high school with. He insisted it was a “group thing,” but I knew better. He’d moved on...or, more accurately, whichever the attention was.

Everyone loved Mr. Orientation. He could charm a room, text his mom about the most mundane drama, and somehow make you believe he cared deeply about you...until he didn’t.

For months, I tried to convince myself I could get him back. But here’s the thing: Mr. Orientation was never mine to lose. He was a wanderer, always looking for the next thing to make him feel alive.

He once told me he was “out of my league,” and for a while, I believed him. But now I realize he wasn’t out of my league: he was just playing in a shallow pool while I was diving into the deep end.

So here’s to Sunday nights, cozy blankets, and the clarity of letting go. And as for Mr. Orientation? Let’s hope he’s upgraded to a new WikiHow article.