Remembering Romance: Chasing Nostalgia In The Age Of Digital Intimacy

Image by Pasha Mukhalchuck via the Unsplash Licence

Will romance survive the age of instant gratification? Is romance dead? The question itself reads like something you’d see on social media. It’s catchy and oversimplified. Its tone reflects the superficial, performative way that modern culture treats romance. 

If nothing else, social media has fundamentally changed the way that we understand romance. My questioning of this at all—as a twenty-something Digital Native— says something about my generation; about our generation. Herein lies the evidence. In essence, the questions I posed above are self-referential. They address a phenomenon—the digital world—whilst simultaneously participating in it. I pose the questions from within the very conditions I am critiquing. It would be unreasonable to expect—like everything else we have come to take for granted— instant reflection on whether instant gratification has killed romance. 

This piece seeks to examine the shift in media depictions of romance and reflects in turn on the way that these representations evoke a powerful sense of nostalgia for Generation Z.

At the heart of this issue lies a keen nostalgia for the world that I grew up in. I refer in particular to the years preceding 2010, when I was still making regular visits to Blockbuster to rent DVDs. Those were the good old days—before social media consumed and made redundant every trace of novelty in the world I called home. 

But what does it mean to be nostalgic? The Oxford Dictionary cites that nostalgia is a “sentimental longing or wistful affection for a period in the past”. Indeed, it was the love that I saw depicted in early 2000s media that set my expectations. It is those depictions of love that linger in my memory today and evoke a bittersweet nostalgia—at once vivid and yet ineffably distant. I am nostalgic for postcards and printed photographs, ticket stubs and CDs— and above all, the art of conversation.  The stark irony is that we have social media to thank for the resurgence of printed materials, records and the like. It is writers like myself—putting their social media platforms to good use—who are responsible for the return of tangible artefacts. It is—rather ironically—full circle. 

I am nostalgic for the love that John Green brought to existence in his acclaimed novel The Fault in Our Stars (2012)—a love that prevails against all odds and transcends life itself; when sharing in the quiet magic of the timeless universe was enough. The fault isn’t in the stars themselves, but in the way that romance has become just another means of digital validation.  The stars remain. When they dim, the heavens keep giving more. So, what changed? We changed. Why are we so cynical? How can we restore the love that is lost?

In an era of ghosting and cancel culture, it really is no wonder that we fear rejection so intensely. I long for the days when time and waiting built anticipation, when connection wasn’t instant but rather evolved organically, over time. In an age of instant connection, a delayed response breeds paranoia. I might question: Why, if the means exist, might a person fail to initiate contact? Likewise, it is all too easy to withdraw from communication when you’re behind the safety of your phone screen. We can evade the consequences of our actions. We are no longer held accountable. 

It saddens me that my friends think they’re ‘delusional’ when they develop romantic expectations, as if the desire for genuine effort or clarity is somehow naïve. The most troubling part is that I can’t, in earnest, reassure them that things will work out as they should, because I myself have lost faith in our generation’s ability to sustain meaningful relationships. 

I ask myself why my friends think they’re ‘delusional’. Is romance truly dead? In a world where photos act as a substitute for real words, where self-deprecation and ridicule are the new ‘flirting’, it is no wonder. We hide safely behind ambiguous emojis because we’re never too vulnerable if we let symbols do the talking. We send one another playlists, TikToks and reels. Our love language is algorithmic. Dates are hardly explicitly labelled as such. We’re always ‘hanging out’ and ‘getting to know one another’—existing in undefined grey spaces and perpetual talking stages.

If this bleak reality doesn’t make you nostalgic for the love we saw in The Notebook (2004)—I can’t help but wonder if you’re too far gone, if perhaps your heart has grown too guarded. Let us bring back enduring love—love that transcends decades; love that finds expression through the handwritten word. 

Let us think back to the likes of Casablanca (1942), when romance wasn’t an extravagant affair conveyed through overt displays, but was simply about souls finding solace in one another. When love was so pure that it came alive through a black-and-white screen. 

I don’t believe that we can know love through a film, but I do know that these narratives formed the basis of our expectations. The romantic media that we grew up consuming —fiction or otherwise—shaped our perceptions of the big, wide world we were yet to navigate. Today’s youth, by contrast, might be more inclined towards pornographic material, emphasising performance and gratification over emotional connection or consent.

In Notting Hill (1999), ordinary people find love amid fame and chaos; love is simple. Meanwhile, the celebrity relationships we see depicted in the media today are nothing short of scandalous. Whilst I recognise the distinction between fiction and the real world, the point still stands. Being under scrutiny from the media fuels a craving for constant attention. That temptation can strain even the strongest loyalty, standing at odds with the monogamous ideals we grew up believing in.

In contrast, Her (2013) depicts a man’s relationship with an AI operating system, representing a new direction in romantic narratives and a troubling decline in the quality of media portrayals of romance. More broadly, it represents our obsession with the unattainable: thin, white, heterosexual and ‘feminine’.. Romance dies under the weight of our rigid and unforgiving expectations.

It shouldn’t go without mention, however, that modern depictions of romance have diversified their portrayals of love. While there still often remains a heightened emphasis on sex at the expense of emotional intimacy, it is noteworthy that characters are increasingly breaking away from the narrow beauty standards that dominated the first decade of 2000s media. The shift toward greater inclusivity should not be underestimated. Think Like A Man (2012), for example, showcases an almost entirely black cast—a novelty that exists only in the 21st century. Diversifying romance depicted in the media gives rise to a keen sense of relatability that didn’t exist prior to these media forms, in turn inviting wider audience engagement. The transition from narratives that privileged whiteness to increasingly diverse portrayals is reflected in the changing attitudes in contemporary society. Racial diversity, therefore, is a product of the digital phenomenon that we cannot fault. 

In The Voyeurs (2021), a pair of new neighbours grow obsessed with spying on another couple’s intimate life. Whilst the film functions as both parody and thriller, some of its themes echo in and resonate deeply with our generation. It reflects the incessant need for comparison and preoccupation with the way that others perceive us. 

Take Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility (1811)—a prime example of love grounded in respect and moral character. Meanwhile, critics of the Fifty Shades Trilogy (2011-2012) condemned E. L. James for the so-called “glorification of domestic abuse.” The Netflix-owned 365 Days Trilogy (2022) is another modern example of a narrative overshadowed by themes of control and manipulation. Increasingly, modern media suggests an equivalence between love and abuse. 

Crucially, film and literature aren’t solely responsible for our changing attitudes towards romance. Indeed, online dating applications such as Tinder (2012) encourage users to choose romantic partners based on appearance alone. The surface-level appeal seldom fosters meaningful connections, instead contributing to the prevalence of widespread “hook-up” culture. 

Moreover, the COVID-19 pandemic (2020-2023) had consequences for the youth of today, disrupting all in-person interactions. The increased time we spent on social media reinforced our preferences for individualism. Similarly, we experienced the sheer ease with which we can craft online identities, and in doing so, we lost sight of the importance of real-world communication. During this period, ghosting and cancel culture became prevalent, normalising the expectation for commitment to be unstable. 

So, when did nostalgia take hold of us? When did romance as we know it become tedious and performative? This shift lies largely in time and experience. We grew up internalising the romantic narratives depicted in the media, so it’s no surprise that our expectations surpass the reality of contemporary romance. We want bigger and better—and we’re entitled to those expectations. We’re not ‘delusional’. At our core, we desire intimacy like all other human beings. Despite everything, the media hasn’t stripped us of that—yet. 

Needless to say, social media can serve a productive purpose. Cultural recycling—the act of referencing and celebrating the stuff of our childhood—plays a key role in shaping the nostalgia we experience.  Revisiting the past with such ease makes nostalgia more accessible and more potent than it was for previous generations.

Above all, nostalgia provides a mental anchor in our fast-paced digital lives. Recalling the way that things used to be is a comfort mechanism. Nostalgia is, after all, just another product of human cognition. Growing up, nostalgia allows us to reconnect with simpler versions of ourselves. When adulthood poses questions about who we are and what we want out of life, nostalgia offers a healthy escape.  It allows us to press pause and ground ourselves. When we reflect on our past experiences, we can act intentionally in the now. Beneath it all, nostalgia reminds us of the things that give our lives meaning.  

So, how can we breathe life back into romance? Let us pause. Let us live in the now. When we get lost in nostalgia, we let today slip through our fingers. Try as you may, you won’t find your epic, swoon-worthy romance in the past. 

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Edited by Zarah Hashim, Sex and Relationships editor