Do I Like Them or Do We Just Have The Same Spotify Wrapped?

A few nights ago, one of my best friends texted me: “I’m so f*cking single. It sucks.” 

And even though we usually exchange chaotic memes and voice notes that sound like emotional jump scares, that one hit differently. Not because she said something shocking, but because I felt it in my bones. 

It wasn’t the “I want a boyfriend” kind of single. It was the I’m tired of being emotionally fluent and painfully self-aware in a world full of curated men who smell like Dior Sauvage (If you know, you know) and say things like “vibe check” unironically kind of single.

That text cracked something open in me. 

Because lately, I’ve been on a reading binge. I’ve also been deep in the trenches of Spotify flirtation. You know what I mean. Someone shares a playlist titled “slow dancing in the dark” and suddenly you’re picturing Sunday mornings with them, slow coffee. And a mutual mental breakdown in a well-lit kitchen.

It’s the modern compatibility trap: if their bookshelves look like mine, if their playlists sound like mine, then obviously they get me. 

Spoiler alert: They don’t. 

Falling in Love with a Vibe

We are the most literate generation of digital romantics… and also the most delusional (at least I am). We don’t fall for people anymore, we fall for: 

• Carefully named playlists (Frank Ocean songs to cry/dance/sleep to) 

• Highlighted Instagram quotes

• Reels with Lana Del Rey playing over a blurry montage of pain

Their tastes scream: this person feels deeply. They’re soft. safe. Probably cried over Mitski last week. And maybe they did. But maybe they also haven’t texted their ex back because they “didn't know how to hold space for her grief.”

You see the problem.

We Treat Taste Like Emotional Proof

There’s something intoxicating about someone who shares your pop culture patterns. “Oh my God, you love Childish Gambino and Tyler, The Creator? Let’s trauma bond immediately.” We treat good taste like a background check for emotional maturity. But I’ve learned (read: been emotionally humbled enough times to know), that liking the same art as me doesn’t mean someone knows how to: 

• Communicate like a human

• Sit with uncomfortable emotions, 

• Or ask, “Do you feel safe with me?” instead of “Want to come over and listen to Mac DeMarco?”

Shared playlists do not equal shared values. 

The Packaging Problem

I’ve been guilty of it too, curating myself to look like a walking Criterion Collection. A little Khalid Hosseini, a little Kaytranada, some Donna Tart for flavor. If you found me online, you’d assume I have excellent boundaries, and a poetic relationship with silence. 

You’d be wrong. 

There have been times I’ve looked emotionally literate on paper but couldn’t articulate a feeling in real life without spiraling or shutting down. Taste is aesthetic. Growth is messy. That’s the trap: we fall for how people package themselves, not how they show up. We mistake “reads poetry” for “emotionally safe.” We romanticize their playlists and ignore their red flags. 

We build entire storylines around vibes, and then get shocked when the character we wrote in our head doesn’t match the person we’re dating. 

The Text That Made It Real

After that “I’m so f*cking single” text, I realized we’re all just out here searching for depth in shallow pools. Holding out for someone who not only shares our weird music taste, but actually makes us feel held. Seen. Heard. Without needing to collapse into vulnerability as performance. 

We want someone who doesn’t just make the right playlist, but knows when to pause it and say: 

“You seem off. Wanna talk?” 

Turns out, it’s easy to fall in love with someone’s library, their playlists, their favorite sad movies.

Harder to love the actual person pressing play. 

And maybe next time, I’ll choose someone whose top artist is embarrassing, who reads trashy thrillers on the train, and who still asks me, 

“How are you, really?”

Because that might just be my favorite genre after all 📖.