Love in the Age of Ego

It seems like the cool thing now is to be unlikeable. Being distant sells, being busy impresses, and having "boundaries" has become the catch-all excuse for anything. Mind you, we're not talking about real boundaries, we're talking about "I don't feel like helping you because I'm too focused on myself, thanks."

And of course, anyone can do that. Because now it's trendy to ignore, to act aloof, to say "I don't want to" and let everything be justified by the excuse of self-care. But if your friend needs you, you help them. If someone close is going under, you're there for them. It can't all be "me first," because in that narrative, what we call self-love is nothing more than dressed-up selfishness.

Affection, on the other hand, gets scrutinized. Give a hug and it's like you've committed a crime. Show affection and they label you as intense. Meanwhile, indifference gets applauded—how balanced, how mature, how well they can say "no." I call it something else: premium selfishness.

And so we drift past each other like shadows barely grazing skin. Relationships that last as long as a reel, conversations that evaporate before the words can sink in. Distance has become elegant, closeness an awkwardness.

So I catch myself thinking: I don't like anyone anymore. Or maybe what I don't like is this trend of pretending we don't need anyone, this cult of extreme detachment that mistakes strength for coldness. We've forgotten that being vulnerable is human too, that a hug isn't an invasion, that wanting a little more should never be seen as "too much."

Maybe the real rebellion today isn't building walls, but daring to let your guard down. Being warm in a world that applauds ice. Looking people in the eye, unafraid of being too much.

That's why I've decided to do the opposite—I'm going to smile at people on the street even if they look at me funny, I'm going to help even when no one asks, I'm going to hug without fear of it being called too much.

Because I'd rather be guilty of too much than too little.