Page 1 of A Solid Guide to Surviving a Situationship

PROLOGUE

I wish I could say I was heartbroken because I lost the love of my life.

But the truth is, I was heartbroken over a man who couldn’t even decide if I was worth committing to.

Which is honestly so bad because now I have to heal from something that technically didn’t even exist.

No anniversary.

No label.

No dramatic breakup post with black-and-white photos and a caption about ‘choosing peace.’

Just me… crying over a man who once told me ‘I’d rather die than break your heart’ and then disappeared emotionally like it was a part-time job.

And the worst part? It didn’t even feel surprising.

Yeah. We’re talking about Situationships.

Modern dating’s favorite psychological warfare.

And honestly? In Southside, they almost feel unavoidable.

Because if you live here long enough, you start to realize that almost-loves feel like the real thing.

Not real love. Not the kind that stays. Just almost.

And Southside has a way of romanticizing temporary things—a city where people confuse emotional unavailability with mystery and inconsistency with excitement. Where everyone says they’re ‘going with the flow,’ but somehow the flow always ends with somebody crying in the bathroom at 2AM.

And people like me? We eat that up every single time.

Because hope is a dangerous thing when you’re lonely.

Give us a lingering look, a good morning text, a hand resting on our thigh during dinner, and suddenly we’re building futures out of breadcrumbs.

Fucked up, right?

And nowhere does that happen more often than in Southside.

Ahh, Southside… the place where everyone wants to be.

Where the mornings shimmer against buildings and the nights glow golden under rooftop lights. Where traffic feels less like inconvenience and more like proof that something important is always happening. It’s where cafés are never just cafés—they are soft-launch venues, post-breakup therapy sessions, and unofficial casting calls for your next mistake.

Southside is where you reinvent yourself every weekend. New haircut. New book to pretend you’ve finished. New situationship. New “I swear he’s different.”

The air in the city smells like salt, ambition, and failed romance—though there’s always a hint of expensive perfume drifting through the wind.

It’s the kind of city where you think maybe… just maybe… love was meant for you.

But it’s also where love can quietly pack its things, close the door gently, and leave you staring at your reflection like you’re the only one who didn’t see the ending coming. It’s the place where you’re devastated over something that technically never existed.

And then it got me thinking.

In a city this alive, hungry, and beautifully distracted, why does a three-month situationship hurt more than a relationship that lasted years?

These are the things that crossed my mind… while a guy was pounding me from behind.

“Fuck, bro! You’re tight!” he said.