The first time I was referred to as a hopeless romantic was when I was watching Wizards of Waverly Place. In this specific episode, the main characters Alex and Justin separated with their romantic partners because Mason, Alex's boyfriend, turned into a wolf, and Juliet, Justin's girlfriend, into an old woman. I cried to my mom how it wasn’t fair that they had to break-up, and she called me a hopeless romantic. I got even more upset and stormed off to my room. These days, I wear the label proudly.

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Romantic comedies are hands down my favorite genre. Whether it be movies, books, or anything related to cheesy romantic plots, I live for them. I also enjoy engaging in media that pertains to a specific romantic trope.

 

My favorite trope is enemies-to-lovers; the build-up and "hatred" make for a very passionate first kiss. Fake dating, friends-to-lovers, nerd/jock, etc. are other common tropes that I find myself pining for. I think that is partly why I enjoy romantic comedies; they are a way for me to live vicariously through the main characters. 

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I have never had a real boyfriend. I have two people that I dated that are the closest things to being real relationships: the first was a week and a half long and the other couldn’t put a label on it. While dating both, I actively thought about movies, songs, and books that I experienced and compared my relationships with the relationships represented in those outlets. Maybe that is my toxic trait, expecting flawed tropes to work in real life. Maybe it’s the media, showing me unhealthy traits in relationships that I am expected to fawn over.

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My first trope I experienced was the age gap trope. In March 2020, I matched with an old acquaintance–though that is even too strong of an association–on Tinder. This man was four years older than me and guest performed with my ballet company for a year. I had the biggest yet unattainable crush on him during my freshman year of high school.

 

I knew I wasn’t attractive enough to get an older guy, but apparently, when I was of legal age, I was attractive enough to do so. I felt a bit like Jodie Sawyer from Center Stage: a barely legal ballerina sleeping with the older principal dancer. I judged Jodie when watching the movie, wondering why she would ever go for the creepy, older dancer when she could have young, hot Charlie who was her age. I caught myself in a similar predicament.

 

This man knew all the right things to say; he even told me that he loved me within the first month of talking on Instagram direct messages. Back then, I thought I was lucky that an older man actually loved me. He was okay with the fact that I only just started my schooling despite him already having a real job, was okay with waiting to have sex because I was a raging virgin. Friends were happy for me for finally finding an older, more mature man who knew how to treat me well. Now, I realize that he was love bombing me.

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This trope lasted for about four months. I know four years doesn’t sound like a large age gap, however we were at two very different stages of life. I was 18, just a freshman in college trying to figure out what I wanted to major in and how to do all of it on Zoom. He was 22, buying manual cars and looking for apartments we could move into in Canada since that's where he is initially from. 

 

The labeled relationship only officially lasted a week and a half; he suddenly felt like he couldn’t be in a relationship anymore. I was devastated and completely surprised, considering a few days prior he was telling me how much he loved me and that he couldn’t wait for the pandemic to end so we could road trip together. I found out a month later that he had a new girlfriend who was his age, a clear indicator that he just thought I was too young for him. “All Too Well (10 minute version)” by Taylor Swift started feeling too relatable, and the same friends who supported the age gap later found it unsettling.

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My second trope was friends-to-lovers. When I tell the tale of this “relationship” to my friends, they always respond that relationships that started as friendships are always the best. I wholeheartedly disagree. He was a friend of a friend, someone I should have met sophomore year but never did because of COVID.

 

I thought he was a bit of a nerd; he had thick glasses, fiery orange hair, and a very subpar sense of style. One friend even compared him to Ron Weasley which I found funny because I often compare myself to Hermoine. I always believed Hermoine deserved better than Ron because of how he treated her for years. I should have listened to my own judgment.

 

We got along well though, often gravitating towards each other at his frat’s parties and bantering by jokingly forgetting each others’ names or claiming to hate one another. After months of secretly enjoying bumping into each other at parties and occasional teasing sessions, we began talking on Snapchat. Then iMessage. Then Tik Tok direct messages. All the time. He knew everything about my day just as I knew everything about his. We said “goodnight” and “good morning.” We began dating in December, and it was the first time I ever felt truly comfortable in a relationship. That lasted for about a month.

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Coming back from winter break was weird. We had one normal day of comfort that abruptly ended after he was COVID-positive. He pulled away significantly–an exact quote from him, “covid is good for ghosting”–and I became more attached, my anxious attachment style kicking in. Our mutual friend warned me to not get involved; he had the reputation of sleeping around, and according to my friend, I did, too. I knew I was more invested than him from the beginning, as he always made it clear that he planned for us to just be friends initially. That was until sex was on the table.

 

He never wanted a label because it put too much pressure on him, and I allowed it, thus allowing him to cheat on me without knowledge of it until after the fact. If my friends were in my situation, I know I would have begged them to end it. When the table turned, I was the one begging my friends to believe that he was different. Instead of the lovely friends-to-lovers trope that I imagined, I was the naive main character that was stuck with the shitty boyfriend, unwilling to move on. Back in December when we were "together," he actually claimed that if we were movie characters, he would be the boyfriend that makes the main character realize she could do better. I never thought he'd be right.

 

When things ended for us in March 2022, he begged for us to remain friends. I really wanted to, for the sake of my sanity and for the sake of our mutual friends, but I couldn’t. A small part of me still yearns to text him, just to see if he would respond, but I don’t think you can ever be truly friends with someone who has seen you naked, physically or mentally. From then on, my other friendships have felt forced, like the elephant in the room is squashing whatever remaining relationship with the mutual friend is left.

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Both of my “relationships” can be related to tropes that I came to know and love. After the last relationship ended, I even told my closest friends that the next trope to try is enemies-to-lovers. I had to stop and reflect on that: the goal to date someone that I once despised. One part of me hated that; my healing mind said that I needed to start going for men that show interest in me at the beginning. Another part of me couldn’t stop.

 

Falling for a boy that I feel like I can fix itches a certain spot in my brain that satisfies my growing savior complex, despite the judgment I throw at my friends who go back to their shitty exes who want nothing but sex. My need to fix men sometimes outweighs my need for stable relationships that shouldn’t reflect the problematic norms of romantic comedies. I am not sure where my savior complex comes from. Maybe it's from hearing tale after tale of how my mother turned my father from the “no-marriage” type to the girl dad he is. Or maybe it is the amount of romantic comedies I have seen depicting a girl like me–the goody-two-shoes–making the bad guy good. Or maybe it’s just my mental illness. I hate that I feel the need to be with shitty guys, but I can’t stop myself.

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