When Did Having a Crush Become Humiliating?

A defense of the tiny, mortifying truth

The trouble is not that people have stopped wanting romance. It is that wanting has become the embarrassing part.

There used to be a perfectly respectable kind of foolishness reserved for having a crush. You took the long way to class. You suddenly cared whether your hair looked good at the grocery store. You remembered a person’s coffee order despite having forgotten three actual responsibilities. None of this was particularly dignified. That was part of its charm.

Now, even admitting you like somebody can sound like a confession extracted under pressure. A friend asks, “So, do you like them?” and the safest answer is a shrug elaborate enough to qualify as choreography.

The trouble is not that people have stopped wanting romance. It is that wanting has become the embarrassing part.

Consider the strange little courtroom that forms around a text message. You send something sweet. Perhaps even two sentences. Then you hand the phone to your friends, who examine punctuation, response times, and whether the other person used your name. There is a verdict before there has been a conversation. The evidence may also be forwarded to a second group chat, where the jury has never met you.

Being interested in someone is no longer always a private feeling. It can become material. A screenshot. A joke. A story someone tells with the unfortunate phrase “you had to be there.” We have become very good at protecting ourselves from looking eager, and somewhat less good at enjoying the actual eagerness.

The internet has a name for some of this fatigue: the “crush recession.” Recent coverage describes young adults worn down by dating-app routines, fear of rejection, and the emotional labor of putting themselves forward. That language captures a mood, though it should not be mistaken for proof that an entire generation has collectively misplaced its butterflies.

What interests me more is the etiquette of indifference. You are allowed to find somebody attractive. You may even discuss their face at length. But the minute you admit you hope they text back, the room changes temperature. Suddenly there are warnings about attachment, availability, and preserving your peace. The crush has barely learned your surname, and already it has been sent to a risk-management department.

Of course, caution has its uses. Some people really are careless with other people’s feelings. Rejection can sting. Nobody owes anyone access, attention, or a date. But somewhere between having standards and having a personality built entirely around never being caught caring, something lovely gets lost.

A crush is a small, ridiculous act of imagination. It lets an ordinary Tuesday acquire a subplot. It makes the bus stop, the bookstore, or the office kitchen briefly interesting for reasons unrelated to public transportation, literature, or coffee. Sometimes it goes nowhere. Sometimes it becomes a terrible first date. Sometimes the person turns out to be much more interesting than the version you invented.

None of those outcomes makes the original feeling shameful.

Maybe the most unfashionable thing a person can say now is not “I love you,” but “I think I like them.” No disclaimer. No performance of being unbothered. Just the tiny, slightly mortifying truth, standing there in its good outfit.