Social media, dating apps and texting norms have trained people to wait. To be the one who responds, not the one who initiates, to act unbothered instead of interested — and that nonchalant attitude is rewriting how people learn, or never learn, to fall in love. 

Many connections now start through screens — Instagram replies, Hinge prompts or having an online mutual who “accidentally” gives someone your social media profile. The digital layer of liking stories, sending memes or soft launching crushes creates a new kind of intimacy — close enough to feel something, distant enough to avoid saying it outright. 

However, social media has made it easy to hide. If connection begins online, why risk being the one who reaches out first?

More and more, young people second-guess the right time to reply, obsess over seeming “needy” and fear that showing enthusiasm will deplete their “aura.” Nonchalance has become the default — not because feelings are shallow, but because being perceived as feeling deeply feels dangerous. 

According to Evan Weingarten, an assistant professor of marketing at the Marshall School of Business — whose research focuses on risk, uncertainty and emotional well-being in experiential decision-making — part of the explanation lies in how young people evaluate risk and emotional exposure. 

“There’s a lot of research on coolness,” Weingarten said, referencing work by psychologist Caleb Warren. “Coolness [is about] being autonomous: you’re making your own decisions, you’re original, … you’re going against the grain.”

Weingarten said that the pursuit of “coolness” shapes how students navigate romantic exchanges, often prioritizing restraint over vulnerability. 

“There’s a level of emotional intimacy that is tricky for this dynamic of coolness,” Weingarten said. “If you’re expressing a lot of emotions, it could be risky. You [could be] seen as not really in control.” 

Traditional gender scripts reinforce this tension. Women, Weingarten said, are often conditioned to interpret emotional cues and carry the “emotional labor” of a relationship; men, conversely, are taught to withhold, to appear composed. 

For queer people, the calculus of connection involves an extra step: Interest itself can be harder to read. Before yearning or nonchalance even enter the equation, there’s the question of whether the other person is queer at all — is it flirting, or just queer-coded friendliness? — adding a layer of uncertainty that straight couples rarely have to navigate.

Joslyn Kearn, a junior majoring in sociology, described herself as someone who has “always been a yearner … flooding all of [her] energy and effort into something.” Her girlfriend, Mia Nuñez, a junior majoring in journalism, initially played the opposite role. 

“At first, I probably was more nonchalant,” Nuñez said. “She was just my roommate’s friend that would come over all the time — that’s why I was so nonchalant. Then I actually got to know her, and once I realized … ‘Do I actually like this person?’ … that’s when I went from nonchalant to yearning.” 

Kearn said she remembered the confusion clearly — not because she doubted her feelings, but because she doubted her interpretation of their interactions: whether Nuñez’s initial flirtations meant anything at all, or whether she might simply be “another gay girl trying to … have this flirtatious dynamic.”

That ambiguity stretched into their first date.

“I had said the words explicitly, ‘Let’s go on a date,’” Nuñez said. “Still, on the date, she didn’t know if we were on a date.”

Kearn’s confusion was the kind that revealed the shape of their dynamic early on: Nuñez named her feelings plainly, and Kearn wanted the same clarity but hesitated to claim it. That mix of certainty and cautious hope — the desire to define something even while fearing misreading it — set the tone for what came next.

“I feel like I scare people sometimes with my yearning,” Kearn said. “We weren’t dating yet, but … I gave her a gift basket, and one of the things I put in there that I didn’t really think much about was a [digital] photo that we took together. I printed it and put it in a picture frame … She brings it up all the time, and she tells me that I was crazy from the beginning.”

James Collier, a sophomore majoring in electrical engineering, said he is “usually nonchalant” in romantic pursuits — with one exception: his girlfriend, sophomore themed entertainment major Lulu Ryan. 

“I was dead set on making her my girlfriend,” Collier said. “I moved my flight to take her to [my fraternity’s] invite.” 

Ryan, who identified as more laidback than aloof, transformed her nonchalance into openness. 

“[My roommates and I] were talking, ‘If he’s pursuing me seriously, we’ll hang out in the daytime without any substances involved,’” Ryan said. “And then that happened.”

When asked what advice she’d give to people too afraid to make the first move, Ryan was blunt. 

“Just do it. Nothing is that serious … get over yourself, make a move,” she said.

Collier offered his own mantra: “If you see a girl that takes your breath away, be the yearner. Don’t be nonchalant.” 

For Crystal Pelico, a senior majoring in sociology, nonchalance was a shield. 

“I was a little more shy,” Pelico said, describing the early days with her boyfriend, Andres Magaña. “In that sense, I was being true to myself … trying to protect myself.” 

Magaña practiced his own balance between sincerity and restraint, trying not to overwhelm the connection while still making his intentions clear.  

“I can’t handle the small talk … I’d rather take the person out as soon as possible … but I [don’t] want to fall apart right away with a bunch of text messages saying ‘I miss you,’” Magaña said. “I wanted it to gradually build.” 

Across campus, the quiet trend is not toward colder hearts, but braver ones — evident in Kearn and Nuñez’s pushing past fear and uncertainty to initiate; Pelico and Magaña learning to navigate shyness and slow-building vulnerability; Ryan and Collier’s shift from nonchalance into comfortable openness. Students still confess, overthink and take leaps that feel too dramatic until they aren’t.

“Tom Gilovich [and] Victoria Medvec, in the 1990s, looked at this idea about what things we regret — after many years pass, we regret the things we don’t do,” Weingarten said. “You don’t want to be turning 30 and telling yourself, like, ‘Damn. [Were] they interested in me? Should I have taken that shot?’”

Love is not meant to be a performance of composure — it’s messy, conflicting and deeply human. It moves through the body like a fever, and at times, feels unbearable. But sincerity has always demanded a little risk, a little earnestness, a little belief that something real might come of it. 

“If you get to know your person well … nothing else matters,” Magaña said.