how long should a situationship last

Since sometime in 2023, we’d slipped in and out of each other’s lives like this. There was always chemistry, always comfort, a sense that when we were together, we could actually be ourselves, untouched by anyone else’s opinions.

It was never defined, but always understood. The connection was mutual, and nothing ever felt forced or unclear between us. Maybe that’s why it kept going, even when everything around us shifted.

Then he started seeing someone else. That changed things, though neither of us said it out loud. After that, we didn’t try to escalate anything. We didn’t talk about making things official or even about what we were. The dynamic shifted, but the connection didn’t disappear.

We still found ourselves in these conversations that went deeper than surface level. We’d talk about personal values, about responsibility, about life—topics that made it feel like there was more going on than just something casual. That’s where the confusion set in. It didn’t fit the script for something undefined.

Then I’d go back to my own space, to my routine. I noticed that life felt more peaceful when I focused on myself, on my own growth, instead of getting pulled back into that bubble with him. There was a kind of quiet that came with being alone, a stability I didn’t always notice until I was away from him.

Still, the connection lingered. It didn’t escalate, it didn’t fade.

Sometimes I wonder what it all means. I wonder if anyone else has been in something like this, or what keeps people in these undefined connections for so long. I don’t know how he sees it now, or what he wants. I don’t know if either of us is satisfied with how things are, or if we’re just used to it.

Nothing has been resolved. My days move between the comfort of our connection and the peace I find when I’m alone. The question of whether to step away, especially now that he’s with someone else, hasn’t been answered.

For over two years, we’d been in this rhythm. He’s in his late thirties, I’m in my early thirties. Our schedules never lined up, but we found ways to talk several times a week. We didn’t see each other often, but when we did, sometimes we hooked up. We’ve always been open, sharing things with each other that we didn’t talk about with anyone else. It felt like a privilege to be trusted with those parts of him.

He’d call me beautiful, send hearts, check in, ask about my family. He’d tell me he appreciated our conversations, that he thought I was a wonderful person. I liked that we could talk about anything, no pressure, no label. We’d even talked about dating before, but at the time, neither of us was in a good place for it.

Until that text, I was content with what we had. After I read “love you,” I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Suddenly, everything between us felt loaded with a new kind of weight.

Since then, I’ve felt stressed. There’s a weirdness now, like something shifted between us. That realization upsets me, but I don’t know how to bring it up. I keep thinking about how to ask where we stand, but I’m worried about making him feel pressured or backed into a corner.

I haven’t said anything yet.

I thanked him for the gift, and then I said it:

"I really value how much you prioritize your friends. I think it’s healthy. But I want to understand where I fit in."

"I feel so connected with you in person. I feel desired and close. But when we’re apart, I just… I don’t feel nourished by memes and tweets and quick texts. If you don’t see this going beyond what we’re doing now—seeing each other once a week, talking almost every day but never really going deeper—and if you don’t want to involve each other in our lives in any real way, then I’m going to need to end this. Even though it makes me sad."

"I really like you," he said finally, voice low. "I don’t open up with other people the way I do with you. What we have is real and special. But I can’t offer you more right now."

He told me about his last two breakups, how they’d wrecked him, how he couldn’t do that again—to himself or anyone else. He said he needed time to be single, that he never really had that in his twenties. He didn’t see himself committing to a relationship anytime soon. He might talk to more than one person for now—he wasn’t sure.

I told him I didn’t want to be left wondering where I stood, not when everything else in life already felt so uncertain.

"You are my main person. I’m not like this with anyone else. I don’t feel this kind of connection or intimacy with anyone. My inability to commit isn’t about you. I just don’t have the bandwidth for it right now."

I told him he deserved this time to figure himself out, that I’d given myself years of being single and he should have that too. I told him that if he ever did become ready, I hoped I’d still be available, because what we had was special, but I wanted someone who was sure.

I keep thinking about my sister—how her now-husband came back after a break, how sometimes people do come back when they’re ready. But I know I can’t wait for that.

I’m grieving the person, the friendship, the connection. I’m grieving the future I let myself imagine.

He sat beside me on the couch, close enough to touch. We didn’t speak much. He put his arms around me, cuddling me, but I was hurt. The silence between us felt heavy.

Sometimes we spent nearly all our time together. Other times he would disappear for weeks without a word. When my marriage started to decline, I found myself growing closer to him. At first, it was just companionship, but over time I became attached. I believed he felt the same.

Recently, I heard from someone else that he was getting married. He had never told me. I asked him about it, confronted him with what I’d heard. He denied it, and I believed him.

But the news came around again. Another person told me the same thing. This time, when I brought it up, he could not deny it.

I told him, “For me to learn it outside was very hurtful.”

After that, he came to my place. We didn’t speak much. He sat close, cuddling me, but I was hurt.

It isn’t that he’s getting married that troubles me most. It’s that he didn’t tell me, not after all the time we spent together and how close I thought we were. I feel betrayed.

Why didn’t he tell me?

I was sitting at my desk, the groupchat open on my laptop, when my ex posted screenshots of his conversation with some girl he had DM'ed. She’d turned him down. Friends in the chat offered some support, and he replied that he was fine, saying he was “shooting his shot” and messaging other girls too.

I waited for the old pain to hit. But it didn’t—not like before.

A year ago, he dumped me, and less than a month later he was with someone new. I remember sitting alone, scrolling through social media, and seeing them together for the first time. The only sound in the room was the hum of my computer. It felt like being punched in the chest. I couldn’t stop comparing myself to her—she was prettier, had a better body, cooler hobbies, a better career, seemed like a better person in every way. I looked at myself and saw someone average, unattractive, overweight, lost in her career, struggling with mental health. I hated myself for not being good enough.

Even after the breakup pain faded, the way he moved on so quickly haunted me. For a year, I couldn’t shake the feeling that our relationship meant nothing to him, that I meant nothing. I kept going over it, convinced that my flaws made it easy for him to leave and upgrade.

After a year—the breakup-versary—I found out his relationship with his new girlfriend was over. I didn’t know how or why, just that it ended sometime in the first week of March.

I missed having my friends around, so I rejoined our old college Facebook groupchat. He was there too. We’d broken up on decent terms, agreeing that, for the sake of our mutual friends, we’d have to interact sometimes and should be mature about it.

That was when he posted those screenshots, showing his failed attempt at DM’ing someone new and casually mentioning that he was already messaging other girls. I watched the whole exchange and realized I wasn’t as hurt as I expected to be.

Then I checked my calendar. It had only been two or three weeks since he and his most recent ex had broken up. And already, he was back to trying to date again. Maybe he’d even started sooner; I didn’t know.

That’s when it finally made sense. His quick move from me to someone else wasn’t about me at all. He moved on from her just as fast as he’d moved on from me. She seemed better than me in every way, but that didn’t matter.

I realized I didn’t know if he was really over her. I didn’t know why he moved on so quickly, or how he really felt about any of us. I just knew what I saw: this was his pattern.

The weight I’d carried for a year started to lift. I stopped comparing myself to his exes. I could talk in the groupchat, even with him there, without feeling haunted.

I still don’t know the reasons behind his choices. But for the first time in a year, I could finally breathe.

I told him I felt like I’d put all my eggs in one basket, and now I was confused. We’d been exclusive for two months—just us, not seeing or talking to anyone else. But we hadn’t called each other boyfriend and girlfriend, and I didn’t know where I stood.

He said we’d only been together for two months and he wanted to be “sure” before making it official.

After that, I kept thinking about what he meant. We were already not seeing anyone else. I thought exclusivity was a big step, like a commitment, or at least moving toward one. But he didn’t want to use the label.

I kept focusing on him, not talking to other people. Sometimes his vibe felt off, and my intuition was bugging me. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right.

I haven’t done anything differently. I’m still exclusive with him, but I have more questions now and I don’t know if my concerns are valid. I’ve started asking others for their thoughts, trying to make sense of why he hesitates to call me his girlfriend when we’re already exclusive.

I don’t have an answer yet. I’m still here, still confused, and still wondering what’s really going on.

I told him I’d caught feelings. He said he’d just gotten out of a long-term relationship and didn’t want anything serious.

I was twenty. He was twenty-seven. I thought I was mature for my age. I wanted attention, so I kept seeing him. He was affectionate. He listened to what I had to say, and it felt like he cared.

We kept seeing each other for about a year. I stayed, even after knowing what he’d said. I wanted the connection, and I thought I could handle it. Being with him felt better than being alone.

After a year, I broke it off. But even after that, he kept reaching out to me throughout the next year, trying to reconnect.

A month ago, I found out he was married. The emotions came all at once—shock, confusion, pain. I didn’t know who to talk to, so I posted about it online. People replied. Some offered kindness, others gave harsh truths. I read through all the comments, letting them sink in.

Now I’m twenty-three. I feel lonely sometimes. I think about how naive I was at twenty, looking for romantic attention wherever I could find it. I take responsibility for the choices I made, for staying as long as I did.

I don’t hate him. I hope his relationship works out. I like to think I wouldn’t change anything, even though it still hurts. What happened was for the best, or at least that’s what I tell myself.

I still don’t know why he could commit to someone else so soon after telling me he wasn’t ready. I’m left with that question, and with the quiet that follows.