The Case to Love Loudly

On Intermezzo, Nonchalance, and Interdependence

*Warning: spoilers for Intermezzo*

If you or anyone you know is within spitting distance of the Gen Z/Gen Alpha cusp, chances are you know of the latest word to enter the internet lexicon over the past couple of months. No, not “demure” or “mindful” - I told you how quickly those would pass. It’s another word that’s in semi-regular rotation in plain English that’s found a new life among young people online: “nonchalant.”

“Nonchalant” is used to describe an easy air of unconcern or indifference. Funny enough, “chalant” - the word minus the prefix - isn’t an official English term, but one could assume it would signify the opposite: concerned, attentive, and careful. “Nonchalant” hasn’t fallen out of regular usage per se, but it’s somehow been reborn on TikTok. The uptick in usage can perhaps be tied back to the popular “I want to work with the nonchalant dreadhead” sound on the app, which features fake girl voices fawning over, you guessed it, a nonchalant man with dreadlocks.

Since the sound’s rise in popularity, there’s been a perceptible increase in people on the app earnestly discussing nonchalance, specifically what it means to be “nonchalant” in relationships. Search the word on TikTok and you’ll come across advice videos and meme videos that give pretty split opinions on the matter of nonchalance. Users boast about their nonchalance as romantic partners, others claim that nonchalance should be avoided in partners at all costs. Some young women recommend carrying an air of nonchalance when flirting with men, to avoid appearing too interested or exposing oneself to heartbreak. Others share that nonchalant men should be avoided at all costs, as they’re often less in touch with their emotions than more expressive men.

This conversation about nonchalance in relationships is actually a conversation about sincerity - about when to be sentimental and confessional and when to cloak sentiments under a shield of irony or thoughtful indifference. I recently chatted with

Haaniyah Angus

for a piece for Milkie Mag about the fear many young people have in taking risks, especially when it comes to love. The internet is both a cause of risk-mitigating behaviors and a refuge from an offline world that threatens heartbreak and unrequited feelings. Online communities and digital entertainment offer more immediate sources of dopamine without the fear of rejection. The internet also, in part, has enabled communication modes that blend sincerity and irony. Whether it’s a crying selfie, a thoughtful remark conveyed via meme, or lighthearted “storytime”-style videos recounting past traumas, everything is dipped in a heavy gloss of sarcasm, rounding the pointed edges.

The real irony in all of this is that underneath the unseriousness, I believe that people earnestly want to make meaningful connections with other people. They’re just too nervous to remove the protective veneer of sarcasm, or worse, become reliant on another person, only to have that person leave their life forever. Alongside these fears, across nearly all corners of modern society, we’re told that we can’t love somebody else until we learn to love ourselves. That to fall too hard for another person is to accept a lesser life - one in which you must work in tandem with another person, without the freedom to do as you please. That to be a “simp” is to be shackled, that tenderness is weakness, and the person who cares less (or is the most “nonchalant,” I suppose) is the one that will “win.”

I too have long subscribed to this mode of thinking, and it certainly has some merit, when adopted less extremely. But it’s impossible - and perhaps unhealthy - to optimize yourself away from craving connection and strategize yourself out of heartbreak. To live with a hardened heart - to live cynically, to live with a tactical nonchalance - is to live without receptivity to experiences that can potentially be transformative. I think Haaniyah captured this sentiment in her piece well, writing:

“I’m not approaching love with the bushy-tailed optimism of a teenager, but I am also open to it being transformative, if not at least a life lesson worth having for my future experiences with love.”

“Love can transform” is a media trope as old as time itself - from Disney princesses being saved by “true love’s kiss” to the countless running-through-the-airport, “don’t get on the plane” scenes in rom-coms. It’s a concept that can at times feel incompatible with conceptions of modern womanhood and feminism, as it implies co-dependence and needing another person (and in the heterosexual woman’s case, a man) to function properly. Growing up, I internalized the inverse of this “love-saves-all” philosophy, regarding romantic love as a “nice-to-have,” but not a necessity, especially given the love I’ve always felt from other people in my life.

Nonetheless, Sally Rooney’s most recent novel Intermezzo has shifted - or at least, softened - my sensibilities around the subject ever so slightly. Intermezzo is the fourth novel from the beloved and famed Irish novelist Sally Rooney, who many have dubbed the first great novelist of the millennial generation. Her first two works Normal People and Conversations with Friends were met with fanfare, each receiving limited series adaptations with acclaimed actors. The trademark of her work is young Irish adults having meandering conversations and deep inner monologues about love and existentialism. Her work has been lauded for its ability to capture the many shades of grey in relationships, specifically the nuances inherent in growing into yourself, and having loved ones float in and out of your life, or at least into new positions. We often meet her characters in in-between phases, not at their moments of crescendo or their pitfalls, but those often-forgotten small moments preceding or following the high and low points.

Set in Dublin, Intermezzo follows brothers Peter, 32, and Ivan, 22, picking up shortly after their father dies following a long battle with cancer. Peter is a successful human rights lawyer who has developed a sticky relationship with Naomi, a 23-year-old college student and cam girl. Peter and Naomi sleep together regularly and he also helps support her financially - he feels like he’s falling in love with her, but their age gap and the transactional undercurrent to their relationship gives him pause to take things further. He is also still romantically entangled with his former long-term girlfriend Sylvia, a literary academic who ended her romantic relationship with Peter after an unspecified accident left her in chronic untreatable pain and unable to have sex. While there’s clear physical chemistry between Peter and Naomi, Sylvia is Peter’s intellectual match - the two often take long walks through parks together arm-in-arm discussing art and philosophy, and occasionally share a bed.

Ivan is a socially awkward and romantically inexperienced chess player whose rankings have dropped significantly following his father’s passing. After a small victory at a weekend chess exhibition at an arts center several towns over, Ivan begins seeing the 36-year-old program director Margaret, who is freshly and guiltily separated from her alcoholic husband.

The inciting incident of the novel occurs at a dinner between Peter and Ivan. Ivan decides to open up about his new relationship. Peter responds hastily, asking why a normal grown woman would want to date Ivan - with his braces and social ineptitude - insinuating that something must be wrong with her. Ivan explodes with anger - anger that we later learn had been building after years of misunderstanding between the brothers, and from the complications associated with grief. “I’ve hated you my entire life,” Ivan tells Peter, storming out of the restaurant and blocking his number.

The fight and number-blocking sets the whole novel in motion. These two grieving brothers who have never seen completely eye-to-eye are now an ocean apart - grappling with the same loss in their respective silos. This fraternal conflict bleeds into their romantic relationships, producing friction between all of the couples.

Yet, the novel ends on an almost unrealistically optimistic note - with all relationships “working out,” despite the age differences, misunderstandings, and other people in the way. Peter and Margaret agree to give it a go - despite the judgmental looks Margaret might receive in her small town. After an attempted break-up with Naomi and a failed love confession to Sylvia, Peter decides he needs both women in his life, even if his relationships with them remain clumsy and undefined. Naomi and Sylvia comply, understanding that they both need Peter as much as the other. Peter and Ivan resolve their differences, finding solidarity in their grief, romantic complications, and the quiet unconditional love underscoring sibling bonds.

The ending is quite incompatible with modern conceptions of relationships - which are conceived as rigidly monogamous and age-appropriate. Yet, all the characters come to a mutual understanding that they all need each other, quite desperately. Even though some of these pairings may be doomed from the start, there’s this sense that everyone is reaching out for one another, that each person is clinging to their respective threads of connection for as long as they can, knowing they may inevitably fray.

There is a moment when Ivan rescues his late father’s dog from his mother’s house, where the dog has been facing neglect and semi-maltreatment. As he leaves his mother’s house with the dog in a gruff manner, the logistical complications dawn on him - how will he take this dog on the train? Where will he keep the dog, as pets aren’t allowed at his flat? Anxiety begins to creep into his chest before he realizes he’ll be seeing Margaret the following weekend. Just remembering that he is loved by her and will soon be in her presence is enough to put him at ease. Peter has a similar feeling of relief and clarity when he’s near Sylvia, writing that “to encounter not only her, the beauty of her nearness renewed, but also himself, the self that is loved by her, and therefore worthy of his own respect.”

At Louisiana Literature in 2018, Rooney spoke at length about how humans are inherently interdependent. “The idea that you can move through the world as a self-sustaining individual is a fiction. It’s a delusion really,” she said. “Human relationships are very important. They’re very sustaining…they’re not just optional. You can’t just opt out of the rest of humankind.” This sentiment is reflected in a passage I enjoy from Normal People:

“No one can be independent of other people completely, so why not give up the attempt, she thought, go running in the other direction, depend on people for everything, allow them to depend on you, why not.”

The threat of heartbreak and loss is terrifying. I understand the impulse to shutter away your heart and reject the human desire to connect out of a concern for your safety. I get the urge to be tough, to be “nonchalant.” And yet, it’s worth showing people you care, to go through life with a tenderness and an openness. To seek out meaningful relationships knowing that they will inevitably end in some kind of loss. It’s impossible to have anything precious in life without the risk of losing it. 

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For more on Sally Rooney and Intermezzo, I recommend checking out this piece by

Clara

- it inspired much of this essay.

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