the worst thing about being romantic is having taste
for everyone who’s ever felt like too much, or not quite enough
there’s a particular kind of heartbreak that comes from knowing what love could be — and noticing, in real time, when it’s not. this isn’t about cynicism or bitterness. it’s about taste. taste in the emotional sense — the way some people are sensitive to the tiniest shift in tone, in timing, in touch.
romantics with taste don’t necessarily want “more.” they just notice too well when the feeling is off. when it’s flat instead of full. when it’s quiet in the wrong way. and that noticing? it ruins everything.
because once you’ve seen love in its best form — a friend’s story, a letter, a film scene, even something fleeting with someone once — you begin to hold that feeling in your mouth like a memory. and everything else is measured against it.
the curse of high taste
romantics with taste live with a kind of double vision: what is, and what it could have been. it’s not arrogance — it’s discernment.
people call it picky. dramatic. demanding. but really, it’s just being deeply literate in connection. emotional literacy is knowing when affection is real and when it’s just ritual. it’s recognising sincerity not from words, but from what’s between them.
sociology professor eva illouz writes about this in consuming the romantic utopia — how our cultural references train us to recognise love as something felt, not just performed. and while that idealism is easy to mock, there’s also power in it: people with high romantic taste can’t lie to themselves. they know when the hug is two seconds too short. when the “i love you” is said, but not meant. when distance, or routine, or fear starts to dull the sharpness of love.
and when that happens, it doesn’t mean the relationship is doomed. but it means the romantic notices. and once you notice, you can’t unsee it. and once you can’t unsee it, you start to wonder if you’re asking for too much — or just refusing to settle for too little.
modern love is doomscrolling
love right now feels like a feed. you swipe, you skim, you ghost, you match. you craft a version of yourself that sounds just vulnerable enough to be endearing, but not enough to be left on read.
dating apps reward availability, not depth. fast replies, witty bios, curated emotional palatability. there’s no space for the slow-burn kind of love — the kind built in pauses, glances, or shared silence. and for the romantic with taste, that absence feels like a starvation diet. everything is fast and flat and somehow never enough.
according to a 2020 Pew Research Center study, 47% of U.S. adults say dating has gotten harder in the past decade. among the top reasons cited: ghosting, dishonesty, unclear intentions, and the growing complexity of navigating emotional availability. and then there’s the glorification of the “avoidant partner” in media, the rise of the “it’s not that deep” approach to intimacy, and the general fear of appearing too invested.
even outside of dating apps, misalignment is everywhere. one person sends long texts; the other double-taps them. one needs affection; the other thinks showing up is enough. we talk about love languages now — touch, time, words — but we rarely talk about how hard it is when yours go unheard. in a relationship, silence doesn’t always mean absence, but to the romantic, it feels like it. and when the pace or tone or weight of someone’s love doesn’t match your own, you start to question the whole structure. you wonder: is this a difference in expression… or a difference in depth?
and then you do what romantics always do: you overthink it until it sounds like poetry.
too much / not enough
being romantic means you’re always on the verge of being too much. too intense. too available. too hopeful. too affected.
you don’t want grand declarations, not really — you want clarity. but even that can make you seem dramatic. you don’t want constant attention — just presence. just the small gestures that show someone thought about you when you weren’t in the room.
but romantic sincerity doesn’t scale well in a culture allergic to vulnerability. so you downplay it. you soften the edge of your longing. you pretend you didn’t notice when they forgot to say goodnight. you make jokes instead of asking for what you need. you start calling your own needs “cringe,” so no one else gets to first.
you want to be chosen, not just wanted. but the more you show that, the more it feels like you’re giving someone the power to hurt you.
so you end up caught between two poles: you’re too much for the people who want easy love, and not enough for the ones who only love what they have to chase. and somewhere in the middle, you start to wonder if you’re hard to love, or just easy to overlook.
what now, then?
being a romantic means noticing everything — the almosts, the silences, the ways people pull away just when you lean in.
it means living with that double vision: one eye on the love you have, one on the love you know is possible. and learning to sit with the ache between the two.
you still believe in it. you still want it. not the fantasy — the feeling. the one that makes you feel known in a room full of strangers. the one that makes you quieter, not louder, because you no longer need to ask for more.
so maybe you stop trying to convince people to love you better. maybe you just keep noticing. and waiting. and loving anyway. not because it’s easy. but because for people like you, it’s never really been a choice.
if you’re wondering
i’m giulia. i study art history, cinema, and literature, and i write to hold onto things — books, ideas, fleeting moods, late-night conversations that stick. this space is for the quiet stuff: stories, films, friendships, attention, and all the little things that linger.
you can find me on instagram @u.k1y0, right here, or on letterboxd pretending i’m funny and not deeply moved by everything i watch.
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