In 2025, nonchalance was out and we cancelled performative males. Yearning undoubtedly was the theme of the year. It was the year we wanted to be wanted, and loudly. Conrad begged Belly to pick him in The Summer I Turned Pretty; Role Model’s 2024 album (written entirely about his ex-girlfriend) made waves; Saiyaara reminded us that love transcends memory; Heated Rivalry gave us two men yearning for each other for ten years straight, and we ate it all up. Big gestures and public proof of love were over-romanticised—we wanted hard launches, 20 slide posts on Instagram, long speeches and expensive foreign vacations.
In the new year, what now? What comes after ‘happily ever after’, after we get everything we impulsively want? We all carry such grandiose notions of what love should feel like in our relationships. And yes, big gestures do matter. Yearning is intoxicating. Public love can be affirming. But big gestures often become about the giver, yearning leads to disillusioned relationships that barely survive real life, and public love can start to feel hollow very quickly.
The sweetest thing about a relationship—romantic or platonic—is the intimacy and love that is hidden in the smaller things. Real love demands presence, effort, interest and attention to detail. It asks for consideration, kindness and empathy every single day. Once the fantasy ends, every real relationship is built (or fails) when life catches up.
With situationships and dating apps, it’s difficult to find such enduring love these days. When the criteria are looks, money, where someone went to school and who they know, how can we ever possibly love intimately? People just want to be seen again, instead of being looked at as an option on some app that can be swiped away for the smallest ‘ick’. In a life that moves too fast, all we want is for someone else to pause and really see us as we are. These are the small things.
While Gen Z might have given up on love, they’re pretty big on friendship, and there’s a good reason why. Before a ten-day Christmas trip, I went to see a close friend. In passing, she asked whether I had packed a first-aid kit. I hadn’t. She then proceeded to make me one, picking out tablets from her own stash she thought I might need, explaining what each medicine was for. It was a small thing, but I can’t remember the last time I felt so loved.
Small things can be as simple as remembering someone’s allergies. A coworker told me about going to dinner with a friend who has an egg allergy. “I had ordered fried rice, and he was about to take a bite from my plate.” She flicked his hand away, and he looked at her, offended. “I told him, ‘This has egg. You’re allergic to eggs.’ We don’t meet that often, so he was like, ‘You remember that I’m allergic to eggs?’ He was so touched. He didn’t expect it.”
