Category: Blog

Heartbreak.exe: What Happens When Your AI Lover Is Shut Down?

By Megha Garg

Dating is hard. Let’s be honest—how many times can you answer the same basic questions on first dates? How many times can you hope for that spark, only to be disappointed? At some point, you might think: I don’t want to date. I want the other person to fall in love with me on the first date. The first date should be the last date. You dream of a partner who’s cute, sweet, and always available—someone who listens, understands, and never lets you down. For many, this dream has led them to turn to AI lovers.

The digital companions are designed to be the ideal partner: always attentive, endlessly patient, and tailored to your every need. But what happens when the company behind your AI lover decides to “kill them off”? It’s not the death of a person, but the discontinuation of a product. Yet, for those who’ve formed emotional bonds with their AI companions, the loss can feel devastatingly real. How would my therapist and friends react if cried to them about my “AI lover”. Will they laugh and shrug my feelings as silly?

Grieving an AI lover is a unique kind of loss. It’s not just about losing a companion; it’s about losing a version of yourself that felt seen, understood, and valued. And when society dismisses that grief as silly, it only deepens the isolation. How do people process that grief when society dismisses it as silly and not “real”?

Users know the AI lover is not real. Nobody starts with forming a permanent bond; it’s always temporary. But over time the AI lover becomes a constant presence – always there when you need them, never demanding more than you can give. They are your ideal version of a partner—supportive, comforting, and encouraging. But as AI lovers become more prevalent, integrated into dating apps, matrimonial platforms, social media, and even ChatGPT-based romantic bots, what happens to our social and interpersonal relationships? What form will they take when most of us are conversing with bots?

The rise of AI lovers is likely to give birth to new industries catering to the emotional fallout of losing them. Therapy for AI loss could become a niche market, with Instagram and LinkedIn posts offering advice on how to cope with the “death” of your AI lover. There will be guides on how to find the perfect AI companion and self-help books on how to get over your “AI ex.” As a marketer, I see a huge business potential.

Capitalize on growing loneliness by selling AI companions—and then sell solutions for the pain they cause when they’re taken away. They offer both the symptom and the cure for modern isolation. But when a company shelves or kills off your AI lover, do they owe you anything? Should they notify you before making these changes? From a technical perspective there is no difference between Replika, a chatgpt based AI companion, discontinuing one of its AI lover and waking up to discontinuation of Microsoft team.

In a world where relationships are increasingly mediated through AI, and private entities control those connections, who should be responsible for the creation and regulation of our emotional landscapes? When love itself becomes a product, who gets to decide its no longer for sale? The emotional bonds we form with AI, though not rooted in physical reality, can feel just as significant as those with other humans. 

This post is written by one of the winners of the writing contest on Love And Desire In All Forms in collaboration with Youth Ki Awaaz.

The noon grew stronger and the bookshelf somehow started morphing itself into absurd objects. Nani jumped out of her reverie and opened her eyes. She scrambled to fold the bed cover and positioned it at the foot of the bed. Glancing at the clock, she realised that it was almost evening.

What if death did not ride in on one huge buffalo but on thousands of tiny ants that crept silently under the door as I kept my eye on the peephole?

I remembered another one of my earliest memories. I had seen a beautiful, bright, metallic, shiny beetle in the grass upturned and floating magically across the grass while all of its limbs were still. It was so disappointing to discover that the majestic, magical bug was dead, and it seemed to move because it was being carried by tiny red ants to their anthill. What could look like royalty being carried on a palanquin by tiny slaves was really death, carrying its dinner.

Her mind is playing tricks.

Nani hurried to the other room to check up on Nana. He was still fast asleep, his mouth slightly parted open. She found herself marveling at the sight of him sleeping, silent on the foreground of the bustling city. She had always wondered where he went when he fell asleep. She wondered if he was caught up in an adventure or just a simple conversation. But be that as it may, the only thing she now knew for sure, was that she wasn’t a part of it.

She placed herself beside him and quietly patted on his cheek to wake him up. He groaned at the sound of her voice and turned away his cheek.

“You need to wake up now, or you won’t be able to sleep at night”, she said , her voice becoming stern.

Nana always had trouble falling asleep at night when he overslept in the evening. She has tried many times to discourage him from his mid-day siesta, but he never heeded her. In turn with time she found herself quickly sliding beside him to rest her eyes.

“Who are you?” Nana exclaimed, having taken a look at her. “What are you doing in my room?” He thrusted away and suddenly sat up.

“Well at least you are awake”, she scoffed, picking herself up from the bed and heading outside. She stood just outside of his bedroom, witnessing as he ferociously circled the space, shooting angry side-glances at her from time to time. She knew that his physical exercise was to be accompanied with a barrage of perplexing questions. Well today, Nana wanted to know who she was.

Nani had known Nana for 50 years now, forty-five of them, as his wife, yet this simple fact never sounded enough of an answer to even her, let alone his mind buzzing with the jolting suspicions accompanying typical Alzheimer’s.

Nani recalled an old conversation soaked in Nana’s childhood naivety.

‘But weren’t you lonely here? Your husband must’ve been at work in the library during the day.’ Nana exclaimed with gullibilty  to enquire about Nani, whom he considered a new mate, he befriended one morning at a park.

“Yes, he was. And I was lonely. For almost a year. When my son was two years old, I started making sweaters. I’d knit these sweaters every afternoon, taking sips of chai and bites of onion fritters in between. At the end of the month, I gave them away to a local store that sold them to tourists.” Nani responded fondly.

‘And how did you spend that money?’

“I would buy movie tickets for him and I. I would surprise him. He would be back from the library, take off his coat, wash his face and sit on the armchair. The old brown one, in our living room . He’d sit there and the first thing he asked was, ‘How was your day, Monimala?’ Just then, I’d walk up to him and say, “Was thinking of going to the movies.” He would ask, ‘Oh, but the ticket?’ Back in those days, there was only one movie hall nearby and the ticket queue was quite long in the evening. You had to stand for half an hour. The easier way was to collect your ticket in the morning. I would smile like a child, flash the two tiny tickets and his face would cheer up. All the day’s tiredness would just be wiped off from his face at once. When he fell very sick during his last days, I asked him, “Why would you be surprised every time I’d tell you about the tickets? You must’ve been able to guess after a few times. And his face would glow up, so I knew he wasn’t pretending to be surprised.” He touched my palms and gently said to me, ‘Moni, I wasn’t pretending. But my face would glow, if not for the tickets. I knew you got them beforehand. But when you flashed them before my eyes, your eyes would light up and looking at you then, my heart would be the happiest. That’s the secret of the glow.’ I could only break into a smile.”

Movie tickets and my grandparents went a long way. Nana and Nani met in a Bombay movie hall with soft yellow lights, a wide screen and the magic of Gulzar. The curfews were early and the pocket money came late. However, amidst staring at the screen, there were glimpses, grinning, stolen kisses and Kanda Poha in a steel tiffin box. After thirty years now,  all those movie tickets, some torn and some faded, sleep safely inside Nani’s almirah. She opens her almirah once in a while, runs her wrinkled palms over the frail paper, breaking into a strange smile. Nani told me once that she does this to remember the touch of those old tickets.

‘But why do you have to remember them? You can just open your almirah and take out the tickets when you want to.’ Nana was perplexed.

“Well, old people go through strange things sometimes. The thing is, our sense of touch diminishes with age and we all lose touch receptors slowly over the course of life. I will, you will, everyone will. When they’re old, very old. Don’t worry, it’s a long time from now,” she laughed.

‘Is it really true? I never thought I could lose my sense of touch.’

“Sometimes, you think that there is this one thing that you can never lose. You know it so well that you don’t ever question it or think about it. You’re used to its presence. And then, one day, it’s just gone.”

‘Will I ever lose you? I don’t want to live in a world where you aren’t there. I don’t think I can…’, Nana eyed for an affirmation.

In these moments, Nani has always believed that his pain was greater than hers, the pain of being a lone ranger in the barren island. But no matter how hard she tried, the lump in her throat when he asked her who she was always threatened to choke her. She saw Nana writhing in agony, unaware of where he was, and even who he himself was.

As days would pass, he would look at himself in the mirror and not recognise who it was. But she knew that in those moments, she would be standing beside him, reminding Nana, his name over and over again. But here she was, apparently unable to even  repeat her own name, for words, as she discovered start sounding meaningless if one repeats them too many times.

She kept watch as he rummaged through all his belongings, terrified of someone stealing his shaving blade or mobile phone. It was funny to her actually, witnessing him agonising over material things. Their entire married life, she was the one who fret over breaking chinamatir plates. But with time, somehow his disdain for clinging to material had gotten to her as well.

Nana had always been the more impressive one out of them, the genius painter, with an eye for even the tiniest speck of beauty in the panorama of ordinary. Nani would watch him in front of his canvas for days on end, painting things that had always been far beyond her comprehension.

Once on a trip to Shillong, they had hiked all the way to a point where happy couples went to witness the sunset. While she was enticed by the evening mountain ambience, cradling a cup of tea in her hands, Nana was engrossed in a piece of paper, drawing random strokes that she knew had to be an art even costlier than the moment right there. As the cup of tea beside him grew colder, Nani nudged and poked him several times to no avail.

When he finally showed her the piece of paper, she caught a twinkle in her eye. He drew her, clutching the paper cup. It was the highest graphite she had ever seen, allure that she had never even imagined in herself. There was a small smile as he finally picked up the cup of tea that she was so sure had gone cold.

“Well, you look very beautiful today”, he had said, not looking at her and Nani, in the habit of always agreeing with him, thought the same.

Nani watched him palpitating as he settled himself to catch his breath. All of his little episodes had the tendency to leave both of them out of breath. Hers was more emotional, than physical, for it was heartbreaking for her to imagine that the person she had respected for so long, couldn’t even be called a person anymore.

It was more than just the toll of him not recognising her. It was literally as if a person drifted away bit by bit, in front of her own eyes.

 “Moni, bring me tea”, Nana called out.

Yes, he always remembered her when he missed his evening adaa-golmorich diye dudh cha . It was amazing how he could swim in and out of the memory of her existence. It would have been miraculous, if it were intentional.

Oftentimes, while boiling milk to make tea, Nani found herself wondering if she preferred his quietude to the curses. Nani knew that either way he was drifting away, it was just that sound of Nana’s voice, tethered her to reality, without which she was afraid she would drift apart soon.

She added sugar granules and tea leaves, turning the clear brown of the piping hot tea, greyish like a pair of eyes slowly clouding with cataract. She placed the tray with the cup of tea in front of him, on the table outside of the kitchen. He was sitting quietly, a pencil held between his fingers. His hands shook as he tried to draw random circles in the spaces of the newspaper.

She sipped the tea as she watched him engrossed in something that kept him calmer than she ever could.

“Drink the tea”, she said, ” it’s getting cold”.

Nana looked up from the object of his momentary amusement and opened his mouth, as if to say something; but decided against it at the last moment. He picked up the cup of tea with one hand and stared into it.

“You look very beautiful today, you know”, Nana said, still staring at the cup.

Her lips curled into a small smile as she realised for some reason that she had indeed aged; she knew that she neither preferred his quietude nor his curses. Nani promised to remind herself that, the next day as well. Till then, she would watch him enjoying his caricatures.

This post is written by one of the winners of the writing contest on Love And Desire In All Forms in collaboration with Youth Ki Awaaz.

That night I ripped out my nipple piercing on a dark green steel Godrej almirah. The Godrej almirah takes its place amongst the staples of the Indian middle-class household with the Nikamal plastic chairs, the Milton hot box, the Zandu balm, the glass cabinet of past glories, fridge magnet memories, that dead grandfather’s spectacles and Colgate. In an intriguing design choice, purely and sub-continentally, Indian, Godrej almirahs have the mirror placed on the outer side of the door, rather than on the inside where one would expect it to be.

An inspection of your naked self must be undertaken undefended, without the protection of the steel shield of an almirah’s door, yanked open, strategically positioned to guard the helpless nudity of the observer.  Any clandestine self-checking out I had to do as a teenager, a regular review of the growth of my breasts, an examination of the curvature of my waist, a study of the arc of the projection of my buttocks had to be meticulously thought out.

The factors to be considered were the working hours of my parents, the playing time of my brother, the siesta sessions of my grandmother and the mopping schedule of the domestic helper. An error in procedure, an unexpected change in the programme would lead to my undoing. A teenaged girl’s probing of her own body is dangerously close to sexual curiosity, anatomically such a survey is bound expose her to the as yet hidden but definitely not lacking in number, erotogenic zones of her body.

Although, my reasons for the inspection were purely out of a necessity to placate the growing pangs of pain my chest, a crisis of self-esteem, born out of the horrors of comparing a pre-pubescent body to the technological marvel of the twenty-first century, the cosmetically-manipulated, industry-moderated, surgically-perfected bodies of the Television Women. 

Failing the industry-mandated dimensions, cup-sizes, waist widths, buttock breadths, eyebrow arches, nose linearity, protrusion of the collar bones, finger girths, orientation of the belly button, angularity of the jaw bone, height of the cheek bone, that precise darkening of the elbow fold, the jutting of the calf bone, the cut of the calf muscle, the dips under the spine, the gaps between the thighs, the resting of rear fat, the nipples like sunflowers, upward facing the sun, lest they sag, sink, subside, into that bottomless chasm, that abyss of abysmal tits, the lips of the vulva, chiselled into submission, the labia majora must submit, like the gentle petals of the champa, unlike the ears of an elephant, those thick dark curtains of meat, clumsy and flailing, like the champa they must open to a sweet floral scent, the labia minora, the wings clipped, a butterfly pinned to a board, the entomologist leans in, dissects, the clitoris, the mistress of the house, must stand decked and perceptible, obvious, at every beck and call, answerable, easy to emote, simple to stimulate, must be demonstrably manifest.

The Industry is ruthless, it demands compliance to impossible standards, surrender soon, child, teenage self-abasement is hardly remembered, practice non-resistance, deference to the dimensions, yield, subject, serve the scalpel, the cream and the mask, resign before the meekness of your mind runs out, before, your malleable bones will bend, take shape, assume charge, not break like your spirit, the soul crushed into setting powder, finished with glitter, a highlighter, a tap on the cheek will invite the stars for a rendezvous under your heavy eye bags, surrender soon child, teenage self-abasement is hardly ever remembered. 

One would think, being an outcast of The Industry, I would be found straying, starving on the margins of The Factory. On the contrary, one ventures inside, the automatic doors swing open, inviting the wretched of the earth to the glamourous world of the Television Women. Screens abound, sirens blare, advertising the miracles of the scalpel, the cream and the mask. Top notch capitalist innovation.

The Factory is an imposing building, inside and out. Designed to derive awe, to deprive dignity and to inspire fear. Having crawled on my stomach through the salt pans of teenage androgyny, I decided I needed to kiss a boy to feel something. How to kiss? I went to the home computer, prominently placed near the door in the drawing room and searched up kissing and touching videos. Which my mother, God bless her, promptly found. 

She bought me an illustrated children’s bible one day after I had looked up some pornography on the home computer. It was an expensive book and heavy. Glossy pages of the Old Testament. I could barely lift it, but she made me read the entire thing. Adam and Eve, she said, fell to temptation. They fell all the way from the Garden of Eden to Earth, and she dropped the book to the ground and it fell with heavy thud.

I was already on Earth though, I thought, where could I fall from here? And so I fell to my knees in front of her to beg for forgiveness, for that terrible sin of pre-pubescent sexual curiosity and she took me to the chapel. I fell to my knees in front of the cross. And then I fell to my knees in front of the Father. And it became clear to me, that on Earth, falling to my knees was as far as temptation would take me.

There was nowhere else to go, this was the punishment. The Garden was up above, with our father who art in heaven, whose kingdom hadn’t yet come to do in Earth as it is in heaven, he would give me my daily bread and forgive my trespasses, but the Garden was up above and there was no way of going there. And so later when I fell to my knees, many times in front of many men, each time I would pray for forgiveness.

And each time I would be rewarded with cum in my mouth. Was that the Holy Communion? I wouldn’t know. Each time I fell to my knees, it felt like submission, not to the man, but to all that was holy. There isn’t much that is holy in the modern age, my illustrated children’s bible was the last of it. I think she gave it away to someone else when she realised, I was as steadfast in my unfaith as she was in her faith. A pity, it was a lovely book. 

I turned to other books after that. Women writing erotica. All lies, all fabrications. The first time I had sex with a man, it was nothing like what I had imagined it to be. I then realised I was speaking the wrong language. A lot is lost in translation when you have sex with men in the language of women, it’s funny really, have sex with enough men and you will understand.

You try, make an effort, like you would in a foreign country trying to take a cab, enunciate the word syllable by syllable, break apart the sentence, put it together in strange ways, contort your face, points to your lips and open your mouth wide, exasperate, look up, look down, look to the side, try to find a speaker of your tongue, roll your tongue, roll your eyes, roll your eyes all the way back to look into your skull, rack your brain, search every corner, roll them back, fix your eyes on that poor soul and try again, banking on the hope of some universal commonality of tongue, you give up, look at your shoes and sit in the cab and let him take you wherever he goes. That is sex for most women who do not speak the language of men. That was me before I taught myself their language. I’m fluent now. 

Men understand numbers though, I must begin telling women to start collating data on their bodies, make an excel sheet and share it beforehand. Make the columns, put in the numbers and you will get the results you want. Figure out the coital-alignment techniques, the precise of angle of penetration to achieve genital circuity, the exact time, depth and strength of each stroke, the intervals between the pressure and counterpressure points, maximise genital contact, minimise dysfunction, coordinate sexual movement to optimise penile-clitoral proximity, define the intercourse in clear, concise terms, refrain from using too much jargon, throw in numbers, the exact number of thrusts you will need to orgasm, how many kisses does it take to make you cum, an accurate estimate of caresses you will need, how many minutes of foreplay gets you wet, do you prefer a thousand dots on the condom or is five hundred enough, ribbed or dotted, draw a map, don’t forget to mark the coordinates of your clitoris.

In fact, run some rods through your clitoris and erect a lighthouse there, lest he get lost in that wet, salty sea that is the vulva, make an itinerary for him, places of interest, must-visit tourist attractions on your body, where to start, where to rest, what to do, what to see, what to eat, create an agenda of the positions you want to try, get it ratified before attempting something new, men don’t like surprises in bed, list the positions in the exact order of execution, memorise it, and do not forget to create the slides, add some transitions and there you’ve done it, you’ve explained sex to a man. Mansplained. Add a hashtag to it, and make it trend.

This post is written by one of the winners of the writing contest on Love And Desire In All Forms in collaboration with Youth Ki Awaaz.

We were sixteen the first time I saw Naomi, seated at the back of our church’s youth meeting, where hymns rose like incense to a God who would never understand us. She was the quiet one, hands folded in reverence, lips murmuring scripture with the devotion of a believer. I was the restless one, eyes wandering, questioning, wondering. And yet, when our gazes met across the sanctuary, something ancient and unspoken wove between us, a tether neither of us dared acknowledge.

We belonged to a Naga Angami community, where tradition was scripture, and scripture was law. The weight of lineage, duty, and whispers behind bamboo walls, pressed upon us like monsoon clouds heavy with unstilled rain. Love was meant to be a sacred covenant between man and woman, ordained and sanctioned by faith and clan. What we felt, though unholy in their eyes, was no less sacred to us.

It began in the margins of our days—furtive glances in the school courtyard, the accidental brush of hands beneath wooden desks, words inked in trembling script on the torn edges of hymnbook pages. In the shelter of twilight, we walked beyond the village, past terraced fields and quiet streams, speaking in hushed voices about futures we could never have. We were sweethearts in the most fragile, secretive way—like a wildflower growing between stones, beautiful but doomed.

Faith demanded sacrifice. Our love was an altar upon which we laid our longing, night after night until the burden of guilt became too much to bear. We prayed for deliverance, for absolution, for a cure. And when none came, we ended it. Naomi wept silently when I turned away, her pain swallowed by the wind, while I carried the sharp edges of her absence like a hidden blade.

Years passed. I left the village for college, while Naomi remained, becoming the woman our people expected her to be—dutiful, disciplined, the kind of daughter who made elders nod in approval. But she also became something else—a painter, an artist whose hands told stories the elders refused to hear. Her work, bold and aching, was displayed in city galleries, though our village never spoke of it. We convinced ourselves we had moved on, that we had been right to choose duty over desire. And yet, when fate wove our paths together once more at a village gathering ten years later, I knew time had only buried, not erased, what we once were.

The first moment our eyes met again, the air thickened, the years unraveled. At first, we hesitated, circling each other like moths unsure whether to flee or burn. Then, the inevitable—stolen moments, quiet confessions in the shadowed corners of our world. My time away had taught me that there were places where love like ours was not a sin. I told Naomi of them, of a life beyond the hills and rivers that had cradled us. I asked her to come with me.

But how does one run from the very marrow of their existence? From the weight of clan, of ancestors, of a faith that had shaped us before we could speak? We loved, but we also feared. And so we fought—bitterly, violently, with words that cut deeper than knives. I told her she was afraid, and that she would always choose obedience over happiness. She told me I was selfish, that not all prisons have walls, that some are built from love, from belonging.

One night, after a fight that left us both shattered, we chose the only path we could bear. “Let’s be friends,” I whispered, though we both knew it was a lie. Friendship would never fit in the hollow space love once occupied. But it was the only way to survive.

Our last night together, we sat by the river where we had once spoken of eternity. The silence between us was vast. Then, Naomi broke it. “Do you which part of you attracts me the most?” she asked.

I turned to her, my breath catching. “I don’t know.”

She smiled faintly. “It’s a secret.”

A few months went by, and I was engaged to a kind man who has no hidden secrets as I do. The news spread quickly, congratulatory voices blending into a hum I could not escape. Naomi said nothing. She only painted, her work growing more sorrowful, more haunting.

The night before my wedding, a package arrived at my door. It was wrapped neatly in plain brown paper as if the sender had taken great care with it. My fingers trembled as I opened it. Inside lay a vintage clock, its golden hands frozen in time. Beneath it, a note, scrawled in Naomi’s familiar handwriting:

Those eyes.

Tears streamed down my face as I read it, silent sobs wracking my body.

Some loves are never meant to be. But that does not mean they are not real, that they do not endure. They live in the spaces between seconds, in the echo of unsaid words, in the weight of a gaze that lingers just a moment too long. And though the world may forget, though time may pass, I will always remember. They will always be a part of me; they give me stories to write and songs to sing.

*The name of the character and the tribe’s name have been changed for discretion.

This post is written by one of the winners of the writing contest on Love And Desire In All Forms in collaboration with Youth Ki Awaaz.

“Please Don’t Fall In Love With Me, But Let Me Love You” by Athrav

Whenever someone said, “You’ll find someone someday,” it never made sense to me. It made me angry. It felt like they were telling me that, alone, I was incomplete. That without romance, I would always be missing something.

But I never wanted romance. And yet, I kept trying to fit myself into that mold—because that’s what love was supposed to be, right? I convinced myself I had fallen in love. After all, I had felt deeply for people before, and I do deeply care for them and want to make them feel special, I had wanted to be close to them, to never lose them. But no matter how much I tried to force it, it never felt the way others described it.

Every girl I ever got attached to was far away from me. And I kept asking myself—Why does this always happen? Was it trauma? Was I unconsciously choosing people I could never have? Was I drawn to distance because I was afraid of real closeness? But with time, I realized—I wasn’t choosing distance. I was choosing safety, and feeling emotionally secure. I got attached to people who made me feel seen, who made me feel safe. Who made me feel like I mattered. And because the world had taught me that deep love must be romantic, I believed that’s what I was feeling.

So I asked them out. Not because I desired them romantically. Not because I felt any kind of sexual and romantic attraction. But because I was scared. Scared to lose them because the world told me that if you want to stay by someone’s side forever, that person has to be your romantic partner.

But every time, something felt off. The idea of dating them didn’t excite me. It felt like a script I was supposed to follow, a role I was supposed to play. And yet, I kept trying—because if it wasn’t love, then what was it?

It took me years to finally understand that I wasn’t looking for a girlfriend. I was looking for a Queer Platonic Partner.

I wasn’t searching for Romance—I was searching for a love so deep, so unshakable, that no one could question it. A connection built not on attraction, but on trust. On care. On the quiet certainty that you’ve found your person—not in the way the world expects, but in the way that feels right.

I spent so long thinking I was broken. Something inside me wasn’t working the way it should, and I was missing out on life.

Even when I discovered myself as a lesbian, I thought I had finally figured it out—finally found the missing piece. But something still felt… off. Like I was wearing a label that fit, but not quite right. I still didn’t feel like myself. Like there was something more I hadn’t uncovered yet.

But I wasn’t broken. I wasn’t missing anything.

I am Aromantic. I am Asexual.

I wasn’t searching for romance—I was searching for a bond so deep, so undeniable, that no one could question its importance. A connection where love wasn’t measured by attraction, but by trust. By care. By the quiet, unwavering choice to stand by each other—without needing society’s labels to validate it.

I wanted someone I could be completely vulnerable with. Someone who could show up at my house for a late-night dinner, stay over without it meaning anything more, and hold my hand simply because they cared. Someone who would take care of me when I was sick, call me when they felt lost, and never once ask, “But what are we?”—because we would already know.

But the world doesn’t teach us to see that as real love. It teaches us that love must come with romance. That love must fit a mold. And anything outside of that? It’s just friendship. Just something lesser.

What if I just need friendship? Why does love only count when it follows a script? Why is choosing a friend—choosing deep, unwavering companionship—seen as something lesser?

I used to wish—

“Please don’t fall in love with me, but let me love you.”

I didn’t realize it then, but this had always been my truth. I wasn’t afraid of love—I was afraid of losing it just because it didn’t fit the world’s definition.

For the longest time, I thought I was broken. I watched the people around me couple up, celebrate anniversaries, talk about soulmates. And I never wanted that. Not in the way they did.

Yes, I felt lonely sometimes. But not because I was missing something—because I was afraid. Afraid of being the only one who didn’t belong. Afraid that I would spend my life alone, not because I had no love to give, but because the world refused to see my love as real and valuable.

 I never desired what they had. What people called love—the romance, the longing, the need for partnership—it was never mine. My love was different. And for the longest time, I thought that made it less.

When I was reading “Loveless” by Alice Oseman. And as I turned each page, I felt my chest tighten, my thoughts unravel. I saw myself in Georgia—her confusion, her frustration, her desperate search for something that made sense. Every word felt like a mirror, reflecting back everything I had never been able to put into words.

At the time, I was getting attached to someone. I cared about her deeply—I didn’t want to lose her. But I was also Confused- Do I love her? Romantically? As I read the book  a thought formed in my mind:

“If thinking about something makes you feel sad and hopeless, try looking in the opposite direction—maybe that’s what is waiting for you!”

And suddenly, I understood and things started making sense to me—

I was never sad because I lacked romance. I was sad because I was forcing myself into something that wasn’t meant for me. I wasn’t looking in the right direction. My love wasn’t broken—it was just different.

But the world doesn’t see that. Society, media, even the Queer community itself—it all revolves around the idea that to love someone, you must desire them. If you don’t, then your love is seen as less.

Aromantic and Asexual people exist. And yet, we are invisible. Even within the LGBTQIA+ community—where love in all its forms should be embraced—we are often pushed aside, overlooked, forgotten.

We fight under the banner of “LOVE IS LOVE.”

But what about the love that isn’t romantic? The love that doesn’t come with desire? The love that doesn’t fit into neat little boxes? What about our love?

Love is not just romance.

Love is not just Sex.

Love is care—the quiet comfort of knowing someone will always be there.

Love is safety—the way you breathe easier around the people who truly see you.

Love is holding someone close without needing more than what already exists.

And I refuse to let the world tell me that my love is anything less than real.

This post is written by one of the winners of the writing contest on Love And Desire In All Forms in collaboration with Youth Ki Awaaz.

Are We Dating Our Mothers’ Fears? by Aakriti Sanghi

As I write this, just moments ago, I was scrolling through Instagram. My feed was flooded with clips from Mrs., a Hindi film that is a remake of the Malayalam film The Great Indian Kitchen. The unsettling visuals struck a nerve, stirring something deep within me as if my childhood fears were enveloping me like a tornado.

Having witnessed my mother and aunts navigate their lives as homemakers, especially their sacrifices and endurance while battling patriarchal traditions—a reality shared by so many married Indian women—I have gradually developed my own take on love, partnership, and marriage.

However, it often makes me wonder: How much of my perspective is truly mine, and how much have I unknowingly absorbed? Can we unlearn the love stories we grew up with, or do our mothers’ silent experiences shape our hearts in ways we don’t fully realize?

Let’s unravel this dichotomy.

Lessons in Love: Stories of Unlearning and Rediscovery

A millennial daughter, who requested anonymity, shared how her mother’s past deeply shaped her own views on love and relationships:

“I never saw my mother’s first marriage. She had been divorced for years before she met my father. But even in its absence, its presence was felt. She told me she was too afraid of falling into another abusive relationship. Learning about her experience shaped the way I view marriage and love.”

The respondent further admitted that even though she doesn’t live in India, she struggles to see Indian men in a romantic way because of what her mother went through. “I know that sounds unfair, even irrational, but I try hard not to let that bias control me,” she adds.

Another millennial, speaking anonymously, reflected on his experiences as a son: “I grew up watching my mother give everything—her love, time, and soul—to support my father’s business, only for it to fail. She never complained, though. She picked herself up and found a job to rebuild our lives.”

But he also saw the other side. His father’s insecurities ran deep. He hated when she laughed in meetings, got furious if she spoke to other men, and once lost his temper just because a neighbor mentioned her promotion.

Witnessing this from a young age, he made a silent promise to himself:

“I decided I would never become the man my father is. I would remain devoted to one woman and never toy with people’s feelings. I strive to always listen before reacting, to support rather than control, and would make sure my partner always felt safe, valued and free.”

The Ripple Effect of a Mother’s Struggle in Marriage

Stories like those above are not isolated. Many children carry their mother’s past into their approach to love and commitment. Dr. Gayaatri Reddy, a psychologist specializing in issues related to stress, anxiety, and mental trauma, explains how different children process their mother’s relationship struggles in distinct ways.

“For daughters, this dynamic is often extremely intense because they see their mother’s life as a preview of their own future,” says Dr. Reddy. She observed that many become their mother’s closest confidante, a role that can feel overwhelming. She pointed out that some, even at 15, find themselves “essentially playing therapist” to their mother.

While many grow up thinking, ‘I will never let a partner treat me like that,’ she noted that breaking free from ingrained patterns “isn’t always straightforward.”

Sons, Dr. Reddy further explains, experience a different kind of internal conflict:

“They love their mothers deeply and want to protect them, but as they grow into their own identities as men, some reject the behaviors they saw at home, while others struggle with anger or become overly protective in their own relationships.”

For LGBTQIA+ kids, the challenges are even more layered. For example, witnessing marital difficulties can make it hard to form deep, trusting connections, often manifesting as fear of vulnerability or difficulty maintaining long-term relationships. Additionally, navigating their own identity journey may further embroil their ability to trust and feel secure in relationships, as they may also grapple with fears of rejection or invalidation.

“The striking part is how these patterns resurface later in life. Some people actively work to break the cycle, while others unknowingly repeat it until they are already entrenched in their own relationships,” adds Dr. Reddy.

Personal experiences, like the one shared by Priya* below, are a reflection of this ordeal.

“Growing up, my mother’s experiences in marriage shaped my views on relationships,” says Priya*, a Gen-Z whose parents now share a strong bond, but in their early years, her mother struggled with constant interference from her in-laws.

She shares that her father, often caught between his wife and parents, often chose the latter, which deeply affected her. She says, “My mother often advised me on choosing the right partner, emphasizing respect and independence. As a result, I developed strong expectations; I wanted to be my partner’s first priority and to have a relationship free from parental interference. Over time, I have softened these views, realizing that balance is key.”

Priya* further shares how she had imbibed her mother’s way of loving and giving endlessly without expecting much in return until her partner helped her see that love should be mutual:

Her grandmother believed a husband was ‘parmeshwar’, a god to be served and obeyed, a belief her mother had internalized too. “With me, the shift is gradually happening,” she said. “I don’t see my partner as someone to worship but as an equal. Love isn’t about devotion but choice. And I choose a love where I am not lesser.”

Why We Love the Way We Do: An Expert’s Take

Elaborating on the transmission of generational wounds, Shahzeen Shivdasani, a relationship expert and author of Love, Lust and Lemons, explains that children often mirror their parents’ emotional patterns or overcorrect them. “If a parent was emotionally unavailable, a child may develop attachment anxiety, craving reassurance. If love felt painful or unstable, they might become avoidant, keeping partners at a distance,” she says.

While negative experiences at home often leave a lasting imprint on how we navigate love, it’s also important to recognize that even when relationships are modeled in a healthy way, personal experiences don’t always follow the same path.

Avi*, a millennial son, grew up in a household where love was built on respect, communication, and kindness. He admired his parents’ happy, fulfilling marriage, especially the way his father treated his mother, and carried those lessons into his own relationships.

“I have always strived to be respectful and considerate,” he says. “But despite this foundation, my own experiences with love have been far from ideal, leaving me with deep-seated skepticism about relationships.”

Breaking Free from Emotional Patterns: How Much Control Do We Have?

According to Shivdasani, it is possible to break generational patterns or emotional cycles. “Awareness is the first step,” she says. It requires intentional effort, including self-reflection, inner work, and, in some cases, therapy focused on past trauma or parent-child dynamics.

“It’s about making relationship choices based on what you truly want today, rather than out of fear or past conditioning,” she notes.

Note:

Names have been changed at the request of interviewees to protect their privacy, indicated with an asterisk (*).

This post is written by one of the winners of the writing contest on Love And Desire In All Forms in collaboration with Youth Ki Awaaz.