He texted back. He showed up. He remembered your coffee order. And yet, it still didn’t feel like enough.
Perhaps it is in this space—this in-between, between what has been done and what has been felt—that the concept of the “bare minimum” even begins to unravel.
This would have been enough in another life, or perhaps another book. A message returned in time, a presence respected, a detail remembered—these are the makings of a love story upon which entire romances have been constructed. But for a generation not only raised upon love, but upon love articulated, these gestures do not have the same significance.
In between the late-night reading sessions and endless scrolling on TikTok, romance has developed a new vocabulary. It is no longer satisfied with implication; it insists on expression. It is no longer happy with presence; it looks for intention.
Modern romance novels like The Love Hypothesis and Better Than the Movies are based on emotionally intelligent male leads with optimal communication skills—being vocal about their emotions, understanding boundaries, and being consistent. The “book boyfriends” are not characterized by grand romantic gestures, but by emotional consistency: checking in, apologising, choosing.
And perhaps that is where the trouble begins.
“Considering real-life dating scenarios, I think someone who offers you even the bare minimum seems like a rare find,” says Neha, a 24-year-old writer, her words filled with conviction and a touch of resignation. “That’s why people read fiction. If people are getting even the bare minimum, it’s like it’s become ideal.”
Neha is a woman who, as she herself puts it, inhabits a world reminiscent of Jane Austen. There’s something slightly symbolic in that, don’t you think? Because Austen’s men, despite their reserved nature, do end up confessing. They speak. And in that act of speaking, they transform.
“The thing that drives me crazy,” she says, “is when men confess in her books. It’s so basic—just communicating—but it feels completely different when you read it in a romance novel.”
The communication gap
Communication in literature is seldom simply communication. It is a revelation. It is the culmination. It is, in many cases, love itself.
Communication in real life is a text. Delayed. Unsent.
What fiction does—what it has always done—is imbue the ordinary with meaning. A look is prolonged, a silence is significant, a revelation is not just given, but inevitable. The reader is not just observing; she is feeling.
“I guess it feels more meaningful because it feels highly improbable in real life,” Neha says to herself. “It feels like those moments are reserved for pages. And sometimes you get to live through them.”
To live through them—that is the quiet seduction of romance novels. They promise not just love, but a love that is expressed, a love that is clear, a love that makes sense. They promise, in short, a love that is certain.
A fictional parasocial relationship can affect real relationships. (Generated using AI)
But certainty, it turns out, does not travel well beyond the page.
“I used to compare my dating experiences with novels,” says Sarthak, a video producer, almost with a laugh that feels like hindsight. “Because reading a perfect chapter always feels good, right?”
There’s something refreshingly honest in this confession, something that touches upon the idea that we, somehow, in our subconscious, start to anticipate that our lives are going to have some sort of narrative.
“But in reality,” he goes on, “a lot of things change. When you go out on a date, it’s not necessary that the weather will be perfect. It could be too sunny or it could rain unexpectedly. You can’t play out a whole scenario in your mind and expect it to go like that.”
Reality is hard to structure.
Reality is hard to time.
Reality is hard to make sense of—in the way fiction always does.
“So yeah,” he says, “I’ve stopped doing that.”
But even in refusing to do that, there is fiction.
How does one stop speaking a language one has learned?
For Neha, the comparison is inescapable. “All the time,” she says, when asked if she measures real life against fiction. “It’s the main reason I have such insanely high standards.”
But even here, there is negotiation.
“There’s a checklist,” she admits, “based on what I love in books, but it’s adjusted for real life.”
A compromise, then—not between desire and reality, but between two different kinds of truth.
Sarthak, however, takes a firmer stance:
“A person cannot be a character. No matter how hard you try, your boyfriend will never be your ‘book boyfriend’. The people you read about aren’t real—they’re just perfect thoughts.” Perfect thoughts.
Human versus story
The phrase lingers, as one realises something important about stories: they are not limited by the constraints of being human.
“You can’t expect a human being to compete with that.”
And maybe that’s when the concept of “bare minimum” gets confusing. Because what might be “bare” in one place might not even be possible in another.
Sarthak also highlights another dissonance between fiction and reality: the way fiction makes things simple while reality makes them complicated.
“I have read books where two people are in a relationship and society accepts them. But in real life, it’s not as simple as that.”
Fiction, in its simplicity and optimism, resolves things. Life doesn’t.
And yet, for all its artifice, fiction doesn’t really ask for the impossible. It asks for presence. For communication. For emotional honesty.
“I don’t think real people can fully meet those expectations,” Neha says, citing examples like Normal People, in which love is messy and incomplete. “Even now, there’s still a line that can’t translate. No one is that poetic on the spot.”
And yet, she pauses—just long enough to soften the certainty.
“Even if someone is 40% of a book boyfriend,” she says, “that’s still better than nothing.”
There is, in that statement, both hope and resignation.
For what romance novels have done—quietly and consistently—is not raise the bar beyond reach, but shine a light on where it was always meant to be.
They have put a face on what effort looks like.
They have put words to what was once felt but never quite said.
They have, in their own way, argued that love shouldn’t feel like an afterthought.
So when faced with the “bare minimum,” the disappointment isn’t quite so disproportionate.
It may even be a little… overdue.
For once love has been seen in its most intentional form—on the page, in carefully crafted words and unwavering decisions—it becomes hard to mistake absence for effort.
He texted back.
He showed up.
He remembered.
For in that space between fiction and reality—where words and actions exist—the term “enough” has already been redefined.
