When I first met Harry (not his real name), I had a crush on his frat brother. It happened during my second week of freshman year at a Sigma Chi party—ice luge, “Panda” blaring from the speakers, strobe lights and all. “Are you looking for something?” He asked, clocking my wandering eyes. I was scanning the packed, sweaty basement for his friend. “Uh, no, sorry. Tell me your name again?” I realized my preoccupation was bordering on rudeness. “Whoever he is,” he said handing me a shot, “He’s not worth it.” Well, the kid had my attention. “Who says I’m looking for a guy?” I pressed. He smirked, “You’re a 10. Girls like you always have a guy.”
You know where this story is headed. One shot led to another and by the night's end, I’d forgotten all about his friend (who I later discovered had a girlfriend). At first, I remember feeling perplexed by this; Harry had a muscular build with neatly trimmed hair that didn’t fit my usual “skinny stoner” type. But talking to him was easy, like I’d known him for 100 years. The familiarity of our banter felt addictive and intoxicating—almost as if he were a drug that was custom-tailored for me. When he texted the next morning, I could barely contain my smile in a 300-person lecture hall.
So then, it was five months later, and Harry and I were in constant contact. We exchanged quippy texts in class and snapped photos of the changing foliage and political protestors on campus. We’d see each other every weekend, starting at Sigma Chi, and ending with our legs tangled beneath his denim blue comforter. Yet, despite how intertwined we’d become, there was a stuckness that seemed to define our dynamic. When Harry and I were together, we acted like a couple and I felt like his girlfriend, but he was adamant about “seeing where things go.” He refused to put a label on our relationship—the mere mention of the term ‘exclusive’ twisted his face in pain—and I was left with a lingering anxiety that he’d evaporate into thin air. Frat parties soon became about whether we’d go home together. Weekdays transformed into longing for when we’d see each other next. And when we would get together, I felt trapped between wanting him and knowing I needed more.
This, friends, is what a situationship looks like.