Between Everywhere and Nowhere

Sometimes all it takes is a single word.

Not a conversation. Not a life-changing event. Just a word that catches your eye and quietly settles somewhere in your mind.

That was exactly what happened when I first saw the cover of Strangers by Belle Burden.

The word stayed with me for days.

Strangers.

Such a simple word, yet deeply unsettling.

It made me think about relationships—not only romantic ones, but all the meaningful connections we build throughout our lives.

Love and relationships have long inspired art, literature, philosophy, and no small amount of emotional turmoil—along with more than a few conversations in therapists’ offices. We talk endlessly about butterflies in our stomachs, the lightness of happiness, the feeling of trust, the excitement of discovering another human being, and the comfort of feeling understood.

But what exists on the other side of the coin?

What causes the deepest disappointment? What prevents some people from fully embracing romance, even when they long for it?

I sometimes think it is the fear of becoming strangers one day.

Not heartbreak itself. Not rejection.

But the possibility that someone who once knew your thoughts, habits, fears, dreams, and vulnerabilities may eventually become someone you no longer know at all.

No one enters a relationship expecting it to end.

No one gets married planning for divorce.

No one opens their heart hoping to close it again someday.

Yet there is something curious about the way we approach relationships. We acknowledge that life is finite, but we often struggle to accept that relationships are finite too.

Being alive is the clearest reminder that everything we experience is temporary. Relationships are not exempt from that reality.

Perhaps this is where idealization enters the story.

When we fall in love, we rarely see reality alone. We see possibilities, projections, expectations, and stories we have already written in our minds. Sometimes we idealize the other person. Sometimes we idealize ourselves. We create a scenario and unconsciously expect reality to follow the script.

Maybe this is why we often imagine ourselves living in a romantic Hollywood film.

We envision meaningful conversations, grand gestures, lifelong companionship, and a happy ending patiently waiting at the end of the story.

Then one day, we find ourselves in a desperate Russian novel, wondering where all the romance went.

How do we end up there?

Often, it is not the relationship itself that takes us there, but the gap between reality and our idealization of it.

The more attached we become to the fantasy, the more disappointed we feel when reality introduces itself.

At some point, we may find ourselves chasing the ghost of our own idealization rather than getting to know the person as they truly are.

Maybe the problem is not that relationships end, but that we expect them to fulfill a story we have already written in our minds.

Perhaps we need to learn how to recognize the ghost of our own idealization before we mistake it for reality.

Perhaps the hardest part of recognizing our idealizations is admitting that they rarely begin with other people.

For a long time, I believed that if someone crossed my path, there had to be something extraordinary about them. I placed people on pedestals they had never asked to stand on and expected them to live up to a potential that often existed only in my imagination.

What I failed to realize was that I treated myself the same way.

I had become a demanding and unforgiving partner to myself—a quiet dictator of my own expectations.

I expected constant growth, certainty, and purpose. I mapped out a route for my life and assumed that the people who entered it would naturally fit the story I had written.

But neither they nor I were meant to be extraordinary all the time.

Perhaps one of the most humbling lessons of adulthood is accepting our own ordinariness—not as a limitation, but as a shared human experience.

Because when we allow ourselves to be imperfect, we become more capable of seeing others as they truly are: not as potential, not as projections, but as people.

Sometimes, the headache is not the relationship itself.

Sometimes, it is the impossible expectations we place on ourselves—and, inevitably, on others.

And once we let go of those expectations, a different question emerges.

I remember a friend once saying to me, “For just one day, let’s not learn anything. Let’s not split the atom. Let’s simply stare at the wall for a while.”

Then they asked me a question that stayed with me long after the conversation ended:

“Why is that so difficult for you?”

At the time, I did not have an answer.

I had become so focused on growth, progress, and meaning that I had forgotten something simple: not every moment needs to become insight, and not every experience needs to turn into a lesson.

Sometimes, a single sentence is enough.

Sometimes, people arrive not to redirect the entire course of our lives, but simply to remind us to stop resisting its flow.

For so long, I tried to plan the speed and direction of every wave.

What I needed to learn instead was how to stop fighting the current.

As I grow older, I find myself thinking less about whether relationships last forever and more about why people enter each other’s lives in the first place.

I believe that everyone crosses paths with us for a reason.

Some people help us heal.

Some challenge us.

Some expose our insecurities.

Some teach us trust.

Others teach us boundaries.

Some remind us of our strengths.

And some arrive only to teach us how to say goodbye.

One way or another, I believe that people encounter each other to heal, challenge, polish, or discover parts of themselves that might otherwise remain hidden.

Perhaps this is why I no longer see every relationship through the lens of permanence.

Not every meaningful relationship is meant to end with “happily ever after.”

Some relationships are meant to end.

Some are meant to transform.

Some are meant to leave us with a lesson we could not have learned otherwise.

A relationship does not have to last forever to be meaningful. It does not have to resemble a fairy tale—or a fairy tale gone wrong.

Perhaps it simply unfolds the way it was meant to for that particular chapter of our lives.

Or perhaps it was never about the fairy tale at all.

Perhaps it was about who we became because of it.

Healing sometimes comes after learning to let go. Life is not linear, and neither are relationships.

There are seasons of closeness and distance, certainty and confusion, connection and separation.

Some relationships end because they were never meant to continue. Others end because they have already fulfilled their purpose.

This may sound uncomfortable, but I do not believe that a relationship ending in separation automatically makes it a failure.

Likewise, a relationship ending in marriage does not automatically make it a success.

Success is not always staying.

Sometimes success is learning.

Sometimes success is growing.

Sometimes success is accepting what is beyond our control.

A relationship can leave two people wiser, more self-aware, and more compassionate than they were before. If that happens, was it truly a failure?

I do not think so.

There is another thought that often comes to my mind.

None of us is truly irreplaceable.

At first glance, this may sound cold.

But I do not mean that people are disposable or insignificant.

What I mean is that love loses much of its meaning the moment it becomes a necessity rather than a choice.

If two people stay together only because they have no alternative, there is little beauty in that.

What gives a relationship value is choice.

Every day, among countless possibilities, two people continue choosing one another.

Not because they must. Not because they are trapped. Not because they cannot survive alone.

But because they believe that learning, growing, healing, laughing, struggling, and experiencing life together is a journey worth sharing.

Perhaps love is not about finding someone who can never be replaced.

Perhaps it is about choosing each other again and again—not because life conveniently carries you in the same direction, but because despite the unexpected turns, changing circumstances, disappointments, and transformations that life inevitably brings, you still find meaning in walking together.

After all, neither of you will remain exactly who you are today.

And perhaps this is also why becoming strangers is not the tragedy we often imagine it to be.

Becoming strangers does not erase what once existed.

It does not erase the conversations, the growth, the lessons, the memories, or the version of yourself that emerged because that person was once part of your life.

Some people stay. Some leave. Some become strangers.

But all of them contribute something to the story of who we become.

So, if there is anything I have learned, it is this:

Do not be too hard on yourself.

Allow yourself to feel happiness, anger, disappointment, gratitude, regret, hope, and heartbreak when they come.

Digest the experience rather than rushing to label it a success or a failure.

Get to know yourself before trying to understand someone else.

Learn what kind of people you attract, what kind of people you are attracted to, and what patterns keep repeating themselves throughout your life.

There are answers hidden inside those patterns.

And whenever possible, look through the lens of healthy realism rather than idealization.

Because in the end, life is not a collection of permanent possessions.

It is a collection of experiences.

And relationships, regardless of how long they last, remain some of the most meaningful experiences we will ever have.

Perhaps that is why I no longer see them as successes or failures.

Only experiences.

Some shorter.

Some longer.

All meaningful in their own way.

Perhaps that is enough.

Artwork: At the Mirror, Gerda Wegener

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