It is a deeply sobering thing to realise that you will never be someone’s favourite person.
This isn’t a thought I had very often before university, but I wasn’t surrounded by people my age all day, every day until coming to Oxford. Now that I am, it’s a bit harder to ignore or avoid conversations on the topic of relationships.
Now, I don’t have anything against people in relationships. They’re just notaren’t something I really think about. And while I’m happy to hear about the people my friends are romantically interested in, I always shy away a bit when the question is turned onto me. Romance, as a concept, isn’t something that puts me off—La La Land is one of my favourite movies, so you know I can appreciate a good love story. But that’s all it is to me: a concept. It’s not tangible to me like it is for other people. To put it in relevant terms—romance and I just aren’t very compatible with each other.
This is something about myself that I’ve made peace with, for the most part, so it isn’t something I agonise over very much. In fact, it’s not something I think about a lot—until I’m caught in relationship talk. I’m starting to realise that in university, getting caught in relationship talk is something that happens more often than I would expect. In these situations, I’m caught between wanting to be a supportive friend and grappling with my personal discomfort that arises from these conversations. This discomfort arises mostly as a result of overthinking, but I don’t necessarily think that detracts from its validity.
To put it simply, all of my friends that aren’t currently in relationships want to be in relationships. I am not indifferent enough not to sympathise when my friends mourn their lack of romantic relationships, but at the same time, I can’t help but feel like I am implicitly being told that my company, my presence, my friendship is not enough. I understand, on a basic level, why my friends say what they say. For many people, it’s natural to want to find that one special connection with a special someone. I think it’s an intrinsically human thing to do.
But I don’t think the lack of that makes you any less human.
Outside of family, the deepest connection I have with another person is friendship. It is difficult living in a time when that is not the case for most people, and it is difficult being forced to face the fact that I have a different interpretation of the richest form a relationship can take compared to so many of the people around me.
This is enough for me, I think during these conversations. Why isn’t this enough for you? I want to ask sometimes.
It’s not a sentiment I’ll ever voice. Even as I write this, I can’t help but cringe a little bit. My own thoughts can sometimes ring like the words of a jilted lover, even though, ironically enough, I’m the furthest from it.
I know none of my friends do this maliciously. I know my friends talk to me about these things because they trust me enough to do so. At the same time, I can’t help the way my mind chooses to interpret these conversations.
I know that I’m not interested in relationships, and I’m comfortable with this fact. But I see the way my friends talk about these things, and I see the emphasis and importance society continually places on relationships, and I wonder—is there something wrong with me for being so comfortable where I am? Is this something I should be seeking out? Is it simply that I can’t miss what I’ve never had? Isn’t that an entirely reductive line of thinking?
Thoughts like this are what make me hesitate to even publicly label myself as aromantic. In a sense, I’m paralysed by the fear that I’ve been mistaking inaction for indifference, that I’m missing out on a vital, human part of life.
But I don’t think there’s a right way to be aromantic. To me, the label refers to anyone who doesn’t view romantic relationships as a fundamental part of life. And although I sometimes struggle in defining my own view on the topic, I know that I am fully content with the relationships I do have. Nothing feels like it’s missing.
Nothing feels like it’s missing, which is why it’s so jarring to me when my friends say something is.
Maybe this is a matter of pragmatic misinterpretation. It could be, and likely is, that I’m reading too much into things. If I was as secure in my relationship with relationships as I claimed to be, maybe I could get through these conversations unaffected.
But I think it’s okay to be upset that I can’t be my favourite person’s favourite person.
At the end of the day, there’s nothing I can do—nothing really I would want to do—to change the way the people around me discuss and interact within relationships. At the end of the day, I can’t control who chooses to prioritise my friendship—but I can choose to prioritise myself. I might not be someone’s favourite person, but maybe I can be my own.