Is Situationship Also Too Much Of A Commitment For Gen Z?

“What are we?” is one of those questions all of us have stumbled upon at least once in our lives. It doesn’t matter whether you’re on the receiving end or the one nervously delivering it — it’s always awkward. And these days, more often than not, that conversation doesn’t lead to clarity. It leads to a situationship, a talkationship, or something even murkier, usually born out of mismatched expectations and unspoken hopes.

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According to many Gen Z peers, situationships rank among the worst romantic experiences of their lives. “I would rather get into a friends-with-benefits situation than a situationship ever again,” said a woman from Mumbai, anonymously. Another person from Chandigarh put it even more starkly: “I’d rather never get into a romantic relationship again than put up with a situationship.” That intensity says a lot. Situationships were supposed to be the antidote to commitment anxiety, low pressure, no labels, no rules. But somewhere along the way, they became emotionally exhausting. You’re expected to show up like a partner but without the security, consistency, or accountability of being one. It’s all the labour, none of the assurance.

I personally like to look at things through a simplified lens: there are people who can’t do labels, and there are people who can’t do anything without labels. The real problem is that we keep pairing these two types together and calling the confusion “chill.” We romanticise emotional ambiguity, but ambiguity, over time, isn’t freeing—it’s destabilising. A 23-year-old from Bengaluru shared anonymously, “The worst part is not knowing where you stand. One day you’re basically dating, the next day you’re told you’re ‘overthinking.’ It messes with your self-worth.” Another voice echoed this sentiment: “I felt like I was constantly auditioning for a role that didn’t exist,” said a student from Delhi.

For a generation that openly talks about mental health, boundaries, and self-awareness, situationships feel strangely regressive. They thrive on poor communication and the fear of asking for more. Many people stay not because they’re happy, but because leaving feels like admitting they misread the entire connection. Of course, not everyone hates them. Some argue that situationships work when both parties are genuinely aligned. “I liked my situationship because we were honest, we knew it was temporary,” said a 21-year-old from Pune. And that’s the key difference: honesty. When expectations are clearly stated, ambiguity doesn’t sting as much. 

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But more often than not, situationships are sold as “go with the flow” arrangements, when in reality, only one person is flowing, and the other is silently drowning.
So maybe the question isn’t whether Gen Z fears commitment. Maybe it’s whether we’re finally realising that half-commitments are just as heavy, if not heavier, than the real thing. Because at least with clarity, you know what you’re signing up for. With situationships, you’re constantly guessing, and that, it turns out, is its own kind of emotional commitment.

So if not situationships, then what exactly are we leaning towards?

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Interestingly, Gen Z isn’t rejecting commitment altogether; we’re rejecting undefined commitment. The shift isn’t towards chaos; it’s towards clarity, even if that clarity comes with boundaries, timelines, or an expiration date. Labels are no longer about ownership; they’re about emotional safety. Many are now gravitating towards what can best be described as intentional dating. It doesn’t always mean “forever,” but it does mean honesty from the start. “I don’t mind something short-term,” said a 24-year-old from Hyderabad, anonymously, “as long as we agree it’s short-term. The anxiety comes when one person is planning three months ahead, and the other is avoiding next week.”

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There’s also a visible rise in people choosing structured non-commitment over emotional ambiguity. Friends-with-benefits, once considered messier than situationships, are making a quiet comeback, precisely because they come with rules. “At least with FWB, the expectations are clear,” said someone from Kolkata. “A situationship pretends to be nothing, but demands everything.” Another emerging approach? Opting out entirely. A growing number of Gen Z individuals are choosing periods of intentional singlehood, not as a placeholder, but as a conscious lifestyle choice. Dating breaks are becoming less about heartbreak recovery and more about self-preservation. “I realised I was more peaceful alone than constantly decoding someone else’s behaviour,” shared a woman from Jaipur. “That felt like growth.”

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Then there’s the rise of slow dating, less performative, less instant. Instead of fast emotional intimacy with no direction, people are prioritising compatibility checks before emotional investment. Fewer daily check-ins, fewer assumptions, more conversations that sound unromantic but are actually revolutionary: What are you looking for right now? How do you handle conflict? What does commitment mean to you? What’s fascinating is that this generation, often accused of being afraid of commitment, is actually deeply committed to mental health, to boundaries, and to not repeating patterns that drained them. The tolerance for emotional limbo is shrinking. Ghosting is still around, but so is calling it out. Bare minimum effort is being clocked, not excused. A 22-year-old from Ahmedabad summed it up best: “I don’t need certainty forever. I just need certainty for now.”

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And maybe that’s where we’re headed, not towards grand declarations or rigid labels, but towards present-tense honesty. Where commitment isn’t measured by how long something lasts, but by how transparent it is while it exists. 

Because if love is going to be confusing anyway, Gen Z is done choosing confusion by design.

Also Read:

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