The Romance of Basic Competence

It usually happens mid conversation. Someone lowers their voice slightly and says, “I think he’s actually really great,” like they’re sharing something fragile.

You brace yourself for something substantial. Emotional availability. Growth. Depth. Instead, you’re told, with genuine awe, that he replies. That he confirms plans. That he does not disappear for three days and then reappear with a casual apology.

Everyone nods. Because yes. That is impressive now.

Somewhere along the way, basic competence has become romantic. Not grand gestures or dramatic declarations, but the quiet thrill of someone who treats plans as real. We see it everywhere now. Green flag lists. Screenshots sent to group chats. He replied. He followed through. He didn’t make me guess. In a culture of fractured attention and constant availability, that steadiness feels soothing. Calm starts to feel safer than chemistry, and competence quietly replaces chaos as the thing we’re meant to want.

This is not a critique of wanting consistency. Consistency is attractive. It should be assumed. The strange part is how it has started to feel like connection.

Functioning like an adult now registers as emotional depth. Reliability feels intimate. Predictability feels calming. Following through feels like care.

There is something almost tender about how careful we are with our praise. As if naming competence too loudly might scare it away.

It is now common to hear someone described as “a really good guy” and then receive a list of behaviours that sound suspiciously like basic respect. He texts back. He is clear. He shows up. He remembers what you tell him. He does not keep you guessing, soft launching his interest and hard launching his indifference.

This is not romance as it was sold to us. This is romance as a response to fatigue.

Because when emotional inconsistency becomes normal, steadiness starts to feel luxurious. When mixed signals are expected, clarity feels intentional. When ghosting is always a possibility, presence begins to feel personal.

There is a reason this recalibration makes sense. In a culture of endless options, attention is diluted. Connection is everywhere. Follow through is not. So when someone stays, even in small ways, it feels meaningful.

Not because it necessarily is, but because the absence of chaos feels good.

None of this behaviour is exceptional. It is not rare character. It is not evidence of depth. It is simply baseline functioning. Yet we talk about it as though it were a minor miracle.

We tell our friends about the one who confirms dinner plans. We screenshot texts that arrive on time. We describe someone as emotionally mature because they communicate clearly, as if clarity were a personality trait rather than a basic skill.

At some point, the bar did not just lower. It quietly vanished from view.

The praise itself has changed. There is no gushing, only relief. Gratitude not for what is being offered, but for what is absent. No emotional whiplash. No strategic ambiguity. No slow fade disguised as busyness.

We are not falling in love with excellence. We are falling in love with the absence of stress.

Which raises the questions we keep circling but rarely say out loud.

When did replying become reassuring?
When did consistency start feeling like chemistry?
When did basic follow through become something we narrate like a love story?

None of this makes anyone foolish. It makes us responsive. People adjust their expectations to match the conditions they are in. And the conditions right now are loud, fragmented, emotionally overstimulating. Everyone is tired. Everyone is juggling too much. Everyone is trying to stay unattached enough to cope.

So we begin to want ease instead of intensity. Calm instead of sparks. Predictability instead of drama. Competence instead of chaos.

And to be clear, ease is not boring. Calm is not a failure of imagination. Reliability is deeply attractive. The issue is not that we want these things. It is that we have started treating them as rare gifts instead of standard offerings.

Because basic competence should not feel like romance. It should feel like the starting point.

We are not celebrating effort. We are celebrating the absence of disappointment.