Is It Ever Casual?
It always starts when I’m already tired of myself, late, and scrolling through social media. That’s when TikTok decides to throw Penn Badgley at me, sitting on the Call Her Daddy Podcast with that unnervingly calm expression he wears like he’s reading your thoughts, asking “Is it ever casual?” in a tone that’s plain accusatory, while someone on TikTok (someone who clearly knew exactly what they were doing) slapped Chappell Roan’s “Casual” underneath, turning the whole thing into this strange little oracle that felt like it was aimed directly at me, even though I know I’m not that special.
And it annoyed me immediately. Not because he’s wrong, but because the question forces you to stop pretending for a second. And that is the one thing nobody in a so-called “casual” situation ever wants to do. We hold on to the label like it’s a shield, like it’s a boundary, like it’s a way out, when really it’s just a word we throw into the room to keep ourselves from confronting the fact that nothing about these arrangements feels simple or unweighted. But the irritation comes from the way we all keep pretending we’re above it, like we’re these smooth, unaffected creatures floating through modern connections with clean edges and matching energy, as if we haven’t all spent nights negotiating with our own dignity over a three-word message that arrived three hours too late. We swear up and down that we’re fine, that we’re detached, that it’s not that serious, while simultaneously tracking behaviour like amateur detectives with a personal stake in a case we’re not supposed to care about.
And you can sit there and dissect the entire concept, peel back every layer, expose every contradiction, and still end up standing in the middle of the same question, annoyed that you even have to think about it: why do we keep insisting on calling something casual when everything about the way we move inside it suggests the opposite? Maybe it’s because casual has become the prettiest disguise for avoidance, cleaner than saying “I don’t want responsibility,” softer than admitting “I don’t know what I want,” and easier than confronting the possibility that we’re participating in something that is neither stable nor honest nor neutral. Casual is the loophole. Casual is the rewrite. Casual is the exit sign we keep glancing at, even as we refuse to leave the room.
Casual is a performance, and not even a convincing one. It’s the tone we adopt when we want to sound unbothered, the posture we adjust into when someone asks how things are going, the lie we tell ourselves right before refreshing a message thread we allegedly don’t care about. And maybe that’s why the Penn Badgley clip irritated me so much, because he asks the question like someone who already knows that the concept collapses the moment you hold it up to the light. And with Chappell Roans' “Casual” playing in the background, the whole thing becomes almost comical. Like we’re all in on a joke we refuse to admit is actually about us.
Because here’s the uncomfortable part: casual only exists as long as nobody says the truth out loud. Once you acknowledge the tension, the power play, the ego, the flicker of jealousy, the strange emotional choreography you’re both performing, the entire illusion collapses, and you’re left with the bare, unavoidable reality that human beings are simply not built for clean edges or emotional minimalism.
So the real frustration isn’t about the situationships or the blurred lines or the inconsistency, it’s about the fact that we keep insisting on playing a game none of us are actually equipped for, lying to ourselves with a straight face because the alternative would require clarity, honesty, or intention, and apparently that is where we draw the line.
Casual is supposed to mean simple.
Instead, it’s the most complicated social contract we enter without paperwork.
Strip the aesthetic off, and what’s left is the core nobody wants to admit:
It’s NEVER casual.
WRITTEN BY
Ilayda
Most things in my life come back to observation; the way people move through rooms, the silence after a song ends, the stories hiding in things we don’t say out loud. I’m drawn to the in-between: the almosts, the not-yet's, the moments that feel like they’re about to become something. That’s where my work sits. Somewhere between clarity and the parts I haven’t figured out yet.
