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We fall for people so easily sometimes, almost without meaning to. One moment we’re just talking, and the next, we’re already planning things in our head, imagining their personality, imagining how perfect we’d be together, imagining a whole story that hasn’t even started. Our generation, especially, is quick with everything: quick to like someone, quick to call it love, quick to feel attached, and sadly, quick to get hurt too. We move through relationships like we’re running on a timer, rushing to feel something before it disappears. And in that rush, we don’t always see the person clearly. We see what we want them to be.

It usually begins very simply: we meet someone new, talk a bit, maybe laugh at the same things, share a couple of similarities, and it feels exciting. It feels rare. We start liking the “vibe,” and once that happens, our mind does the rest. We fill in all the missing parts. If we like someone’s voice, we decide they must be kind. If they’re a little affectionate, we assume they’re emotionally mature. If they text us at night, we imagine they’ll be there when we need them. Without even realizing it, we create a version of them in our head that feels comforting, soft, and safe, even when the real person may not be any of those things.

And honestly, we don’t do this because we’re stupid. We do it because we’re hopeful. Because we crave connection. Because being seen, even a little, feels so good that we want to believe the rest will match. It’s easier to fall for the version we build than to slowly understand the real human being standing in front of us. Real people come with flaws, boundaries, moods, histories, and emotions that don’t always match ours. Imagined people? They never disappoint. They fit exactly into the story we want.

This is why the beginning of relationships feels like magic. Both people try to be their best version. Everyone is polite, gentle, and responsive. It’s like the first few weeks of knowing someone exists in a bubble where everything seems perfect. But the truth is, this isn’t real compatibility; it’s performance. Both sides are hiding the parts of themselves they’re scared to show. And because of that, we fall for the potential instead of the person.

Take, for instance, a case drawn from recent psychological research on relational patterns: individuals with high levels of what is sometimes called Emophilia, a predisposition to fall in love quickly and often, tend to leap into romantic attachment before truly knowing the other person. They’re more prone to idealize partners, ignore warning signs, and base their feelings on the promise of what could be rather than what is. In such cases, relationships often begin with intensity and hope, but are vulnerable to collapse when reality fails to match fantasy, when imperfect human behaviour clashes with that imagined perfection.

We also see this pattern so beautifully, painfully, and honestly in White Nights by Fyodor Dostoevsky. The main character, who doesn’t even have a name, lives in his own mind more than he lives in reality. He walks through life feeling invisible and lonely, so when he meets Nastenka, he clings to her like she is the answer to everything he has ever felt. He falls in love with her kindness, her innocence, and the way she talks to him with honesty. But more than that, he falls in love with what she represents for him: companionship, warmth, hope. He doesn’t fall for Nastenka as a whole person. He falls for the emotional world he builds around her.

And Dostoevsky does something genius: he never gives the narrator a name. He’s just “the dreamer,” which makes him feel like all of us. We’ve all been that person, even if we don’t admit it. Someone looks at us a little longer, smiles a little softer, shares a little piece of themselves, and suddenly, it feels like destiny. We forget that destiny needs more than three conversations.

In White Nights, the dreamer convinces himself that Nastenka is the woman he’s meant to be with. He imagines a future with her, imagines a life where they’re together, imagines himself finally happy after years of loneliness. But when she returns to the man she truly loves, he breaks down not because Nastenka betrayed him, but because his dream fell apart. He wasn’t crying for her. He was crying for everything he imagined with her.

That’s exactly what many of us go through. The pain isn’t always because the person left. It’s because the world we built around them collapsed.

A lot of this also comes from loneliness, even when we don’t realize we’re lonely. When you’ve been alone for a long time, even small attention feels life-changing. Someone listens, someone laughs with you, someone texts you at night, and suddenly, they shine brighter than they should. Loneliness makes imagination louder. It turns simple gestures into emotional fireworks. You don’t see the red flags because you’re too busy feeling the warmth. And in that warmth, you forget to ask whether this person can actually stand beside you in real life.

But despite all this, falling for imagined versions isn’t something to be ashamed of. It just means we feel deeply. It means we want to love and be loved. It means we believe in goodness, maybe a little too much. And honestly, I think there’s something beautiful in that, even if it hurts.

However, the real problem begins when we refuse to step out of the fantasy. When we ignore the signs. When we keep expecting the person to match the version in our heads. Because no matter how hard you try, no one can behave exactly how you imagine them to. No one can love you in the perfect, cinematic way your mind creates. And if we don’t learn to separate people from our expectations, we end up breaking our own hearts.

Real love isn’t instant. It’s not based on a vibe. It’s not built in a week. Real love takes time—time to understand, time to accept, time to see the flaws and still choose the person. Real love isn’t dreamy and dramatic. It’s steady, patient, and grounding. It’s knowing someone as they really are, without over-romanticizing the first few conversations.

In the end, maybe the reason we fall for imagined versions is that it gives us hope. It lets us escape for a while. It gives our hearts something to hold on to, even if it’s not real. But life is lived outside the imagination. Love, if we want it to last, has to be real—not perfect, but real.

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