They couldn’t go anywhere or do anything without each other. I was surprised they could go to the bathroom without holding hands the entire time. It was almost cute—almost. Endearing in the way a pair of matching sweaters might be, if you didn’t think too hard about the fact that they both wore them everywhere.
At first, it felt like maybe this was just how some people are. Clingy, affectionate, wrapped up in one another in that giddy way new couples sometimes are. But this wasn’t new. This was stale, tight, and uncomfortable, like old bread that’s been left in the bag too long. There was something off about it. Something I couldn’t quite name.
Eventually, I started to notice what was missing—space. Any time one of them expressed an individual opinion, it was instantly checked against the other’s reaction. They didn’t disagree. Ever. Not out loud. But the silence said plenty. There was a current of panic underneath every conversation, a quiet tension that hummed like white noise. They weren’t talking to each other. They were scanning each other. For signs of withdrawal, rejection, or distance.
And what looked like love? It was more like surveillance. Monitoring. Needing to be needed. Filling the silence before it could turn into solitude.
It got me thinking about how easy it is to confuse intensity with intimacy. When people say they “can’t live without” someone, it sounds romantic. But sometimes, it’s just code for, “I have no idea who I am if this person leaves.” There’s no breathing room in that kind of connection—just a slow collapse into the same shape, where no one really knows who’s feeling what anymore.
Eventually, it became clear. They didn’t actually love each other—not anymore, at least. What they loved was the structure. The function. The way their closeness shielded them from the fear of being alone. Of being not good enough. Of being unneeded. The relationship had become a life raft, not a shared experience.
Dependency can look like devotion from the outside. But the longer you watch, the more you see the fraying rope, the quiet panic. And you start to realise: love that can’t survive without constant confirmation isn’t love at all. It’s fear, dressed up like commitment.
