Stop Reading Between the Likes

understanding parasocial relationships

Photo by Marc Fanelli-Isla on Unsplash

You’ve never met.

She’s never looked you in the eye, never heard your voice, never once had to sit in a room and feel your presence.

But you feel like you know her.

You get her jokes. You can predict her opinions. You know what would piss her off and what would make her laugh.

If someone criticizes her, it feels personal. If she opens up about a hard time, you feel proud of her vulnerability.

She doesn’t know you exist.

In the digital age, failing to recognize a parasocial relationship is more dangerous than failing to recognize a propaganda campaign.

Because at least propaganda is impersonal—you know it’s trying to manipulate you. A parasocial bond feels like connection. Like insight. Like loyalty.

It feels real. But it’s a mirror, not a window.

Let’s talk about what that means, and why it’s breaking more than just hearts.

Where This All Began

The term parasocial relationship was coined in 1956 by sociologists Donald Horton and Richard Wohl, studying the rise of television. At the time, the phenomenon seemed almost quaint: viewers developing strong emotional bonds with newscasters, talk show hosts, and soap opera stars. They noticed something odd—people weren’t just entertained.

They felt seen. They felt known.

As if the person on the screen cared back.

Of course, they didn’t. The relationship was entirely one-way.

But the illusion of intimacy was powerful. Horton and Wohl warned that viewers might come to treat these figures as friends, mentors, or even emotional support systems—projecting familiarity onto someone whose image was constructed for mass consumption.

That was 70 years ago.

Today, those dynamics haven’t just persisted: they’ve metastasized.

In a world of TikToks, Twitter threads, Substack essays, and YouTube confessionals, the original parasocial setup has morphed into something far more personal and far more insidious. Celebrities now talk directly into the camera. Influencers share baby photos, mental health updates, and deeply personal struggles. They reply to comments. They follow you back. They feel accessible. That distance between screen and soul feels like it’s vanished.

But it hasn’t. The performance has simply gotten better.

Vulnerability Is Powerful—and That’s Why the Boundaries Matter More

It would be easy to read all of this and walk away thinking, Well, I guess we should all be cold and closed off online. Don’t get too real or people might cling too hard.

But that’s not the answer. And it’s not honest.

Some of the most meaningful writing I’ve ever done has come from a place of deep, personal vulnerability.

My essay on resisting suicidal urges—the one I almost didn’t publish—has literally saved lives. I’ve received messages from people who said it kept them alive another night.

That’s not a small thing. That’s not performance. That’s connection.

And I’m not alone.

I could mention dozens of examples that have helped me, but just a few of the ones that spring to mind are Nora McInerny’s discussion about losing her husband while pregnant with their son and my friend Josh’s discussion of his childhood trauma on his podcast.

Josh Slocum

and I are real friends now — friends to the “I invite myself over when I feel like it” point — but we started off as a parasocial relationship, me taking long walks to binge his podcast and crying because someone finally got the C in C-PTSD.

Vulnerability online can create true solidarity. It can destigmatize shame, name the unspeakable, and carve out little oases of honesty in a sea of performance.

But that’s precisely why we have to be even more careful about understanding parasocial dynamics in those moments.

Because emotional openness from a persona can feel like intimacy. It can feel like an invitation.

And if you're the one watching from the other side of the screen—especially if you’re hurting—it can feel like you’ve found someone who sees you, someone you could reach out to and be held by.

But vulnerability, even when it resonates deeply, is not the same thing as availability for a relationship.

This is where it gets especially dangerous—for both sides.

When a creator shares something raw and true, it may be their best work. It may save lives. But it also opens the door for projection, over-identification, and misplaced emotional expectations. It creates the illusion of closeness where none actually exists. And if the creator doesn't respond, or seems distant later, it can feel like a betrayal—not because they were unkind, but because the fantasy fell apart.

This is not a call for creators to stop being vulnerable.

This is a call for all of us—creators and audiences alike—to hold that vulnerability with respect, not with ownership.

We can be moved, we can be grateful, we can even be changed.

But we don’t get to expect a personal relationship in return.

The Line Between Internet Friend and Parasocial Bond

In the digital age, many of us have close friends we haven’t met in person—or only see in person every so often, through planned trips, shared events, or weekend visits spaced months or years apart.

These are real friendships, forged in comment sections and DMs, maintained through texts and voice notes, and deepened across long stretches of digital space.

It’s easy—so easy—to confuse those with parasocial relationships. Especially because some of them start that way.

I know. I’ve been on both sides.

Some of my closest in-person friendships today started parasocially. I followed their work, or they followed mine. In some cases, I was the "persona," receiving emails or DMs that revealed someone had built a whole emotional narrative around me. In other cases, I was the one watching, reading, and feeling like I got them—before I actually knew them.

It can be blurry. But over time, if there’s real connection, the blurry line sharpens.

Let’s explore how to tell the difference.

Reciprocity

In a true friendship, there’s give and take. You both initiate. You both share. You both invest.

Parasocial relationships, even when replies happen, still revolve around asymmetry. The persona doesn’t need your emotional availability. You need theirs.

Emotional Symmetry

A real friend is someone you’d feel okay venting to and holding space for. You’re on equal footing emotionally.

In a parasocial relationship, the emotional weight is carried almost entirely by one person—the one on the outside looking in.

Access to the Messy

Internet friends share their real lives with you: not just hot takes or polished stories, but messiness. They show up tired. They cancel plans. They’re occasionally annoying.

In parasocial bonds, the persona is always performing—even when “being vulnerable.” That curated authenticity can feel real, but you’re still getting a highlight reel with emotional filters.

Platform Boundaries

Your real friends exist across platforms—and outside them. Maybe you talk via text, email, or actual phone calls. You’ve probably had late-night heart-to-hearts, sent memes during work breaks, or exchanged long voice messages about nothing at all.

If your only interaction with someone is through their content, then no matter how intimate it feels, it’s likely parasocial. You're part of the audience. And they are still performing—even if beautifully, even if kindly, even if truthfully.

Narrative Control

Real friendships are messy and mutual. You don't always get to control the story. You misunderstand each other sometimes. You have awkward moments and work through them.

Parasocial dynamics are edited. The persona holds the narrative power.

You fill in the gaps.

Conflict and Repair

Internet friends have misunderstandings. Maybe you got quiet for a bit. Maybe they did. Maybe one of you texted the wrong thing and it stung. But the friendship moved through it.

In parasocial bonds, conflict often feels catastrophic—for one person only. The persona may not even register that it happened. You’re left holding the rupture alone.

Who Notices Your Absence?

If you disappear for a few days, a real friend checks in.
If you disappear from a parasocial relationship, the persona likely doesn’t notice. Or if they do, it’s as part of aggregate analytics—a drop in engagement, a dip in follower count. Not you.

Meeting in Person

Within reason — assuming that finances, distance, and physical mobility aren’t insurmountable barriers — internet friends are people you’ve met in person, or seriously plan to, or at least would if the stars aligned. No, I’m not saying that if you’re quite poor the fact that you wouldn’t spend a windfall of $3,000 on a plane ticket to visit a friend four continents away, despite everything else applying, means they’re a parasocial relationship and not a friend.

I’m saying that, within reason, meeting in person is on the table.

With parasocial relationships, it isn’t — and for good reason.

When you’re in it, this can be surprisingly hard to see. Especially because many true friendships begin through parasocial connections—particularly in creator or public-facing communities.

What matters is that at some point, the balance shifted. You became people to each other. Not just roles.

But if the balance never shifts—and you're still offering emotional investment, time, and loyalty to someone who sees you only as “the audience”—that’s parasocial. And it can be both disorienting and painful when that truth hits.

More of Us Are the Persona Than We Realize

I’m not writing this just for the fans.

I’m writing it for the creators, the posters, the threaders, the podcasters, the microcelebrities, the Substackers with a few dozen loyal readers, the Twitter accounts with 2,000 followers, the TikTokers whose video hit 30k views and blew up their DMs.

More of us are the persona in a parasocial relationship than we realize.

You don’t need to be a household name. You don’t need to be verified or monetized. You don’t even need a large following.

All it takes is one person seeing your content—your writing, your jokes, your video essays—and filling in the blanks with intimacy. Emotional proximity you never consented to, and maybe never even noticed forming.

Here’s why I’m telling you this:

Recently, right after a bogus fraud claim (yes, I wrote a separate essay about that circus), someone else requested a refund. Not because of the content. Not because I missed a promised post. But because of parasocial reasons.

He had left a comment, and I responded honestly and forthrightly—without tiptoeing, pussyfooting, or acting like his feelings were my top priority.

I didn’t soften what I said the way I would if he were my best friend having a terrible day.

So he requested a refund. “I felt my presence was a problem so I backed out,” he wrote.

Let that sit.

Because I didn’t respond to his comment with gushing praise, he decided he was upsetting me. As if I were emotionally burdened by his mere subscription. As if treating him like an internet rando—not a close friend—was a rejection.

Not a boundary. Not neutrality. Not time constraints or life or priorities. Rejection.

And in his mind, that rejection meant he had to leave—and take his money with him. Which means my Stripe account got dinged again: more fees, more hassle, more admin overhead—because a stranger’s emotional investment in me wasn’t returned.

As if it would even be possible—much less desirable—for me to know the names of over six hundred sixty paid subscribers, or nearly nine thousand subscribers total.

That didn’t occur to him. Only his feelings did.

This is what parasocial disillusionment looks like. And it’s not rare.

It’s normal.

It’s just that no one talks about it.

Because parasociality only becomes visible when it ruptures—when the fantasy fails to deliver the intimacy it quietly promised. The “I thought we had a connection” moment, followed by confusion, bitterness, or embarrassment.

Sometimes that bitterness curdles into obsession—the kind that ends with me explaining to a kindly, grandfatherly cop what Twitter is, and why I need patrol drive-bys for a few weeks. (A story I’ll tell one day.)

Other times, it shows up as a chirpy little email from the payment processor, letting me know I now owe fees—because, with my characteristically impeccable timing, someone requested a refund hours after I’d transferred the payout to my student loan fund.

How to Handle It—From Both Sides

If you’re the persona (even a tiny one): you don’t owe emotional intimacy to your audience. You owe honesty, clarity, and decency. But you’re allowed to have boundaries, bad days, missed comments, or just the desire to not engage.

What helps:

• Name the boundary gently. A pinned comment, a line in your bio, a reminder that responses aren’t always possible can reduce confusion.

• Don’t mirror the intensity. If someone comes in hot—praising you too much or projecting emotion—don’t match the energy out of politeness. Stay grounded.

• Don’t overcorrect. You are not required to soothe someone who has mistaken access for relationship. You can be kind without pretending you feel something you don’t.

You are not “cold” for not responding to every comment. You are not “upset” just because you didn’t answer. You’re a human with limits—and the more visible you become, the more important it is to hold them.

If you’re the non-persona: you’re allowed to admire someone. To learn from them. Even to feel connected to them. But the moment you start expecting relationship in return—emotional engagement, attention, validation—you’re no longer in neutral territory. You’ve crossed into a parasocial dynamic, and that’s not fair to either of you.

What helps:

• Check for reciprocity. Are they reaching out to you the way you reach out to them? If not, it’s not mutual.

• Distinguish the work from the person. Liking their writing, voice, or content doesn’t mean they owe you access.

• Notice how you respond to silence. If a lack of response makes you feel rejected, ask whether you were expecting something they never agreed to give.

And maybe most importantly: don’t shame yourself if you’ve fallen into this dynamic. Everyone has. The internet invites it. It flattens us into avatars. It confuses performance with presence.

It rewards emotional overinvestment and punishes detachment.

The shame isn’t in getting caught up—it’s in refusing to see it once it becomes clear.

Substack Isn’t OnlyFans

There’s a platform for buying emotional availability. It’s called OnlyFans.

That’s not a dig. It’s just clarity.

On OnlyFans, subscribers pay for access. Not just to content, but often to customized attention, private replies, even emotional labor that’s part of the deal. The transaction is explicit: I give you money, you notice me.

Substack is not that.

A Substack subscription buys access to writing, not the writer.

You’re supporting ideas, arguments, stories, essays. You are not buying emotional validation, responses to comments, or inclusion in a social circle. This isn’t a Patreon Discord tier. This isn’t cameo.

And it’s sure as hell not parasocial concierge service.

If a writer happens to reply to comments—or even form friendships with longtime readers—that’s generosity, not obligation. It’s a bonus, not the product.

But parasocial confusion blurs that boundary. And when the illusion collapses—when silence is misread as rejection, or disagreement feels like betrayal—it can leave people spinning. Hurt. Embarrassed. Sometimes furious.

That’s why we have to name it.

Because if we don’t, the human impulse for connection will keep finding substitutes—and then punishing people for not delivering what they never offered.

Conclusion

Parasocial relationships aren’t inherently bad. Admiration isn’t bad. Connection through content isn’t bad. But when they replace real connection—or when they smuggle in unspoken expectations—they become a problem.

Most of us are more “persona” than we realize.

And many of us are more “audience” than we admit.

The healthiest thing we can do is name the dynamic before it distorts reality.

Because what we’re really looking for isn’t a more responsive stranger.

It’s a real relationship—mutual, messy, human.

And you can’t buy that. Not with five bucks, not with compliments, not with seven paragraphs of emotionally raw apology about a thread you thought mattered more than it did.

Josh and I have worked through ruptures. We’ve traveled together. We can call each other’s bullshit—and, just as importantly, we usually know when not to. We know what the other wants done in an end-of-life scenario. That’s friendship. That’s history, trust, and investment—not projection.

And yes, it started parasocially. I binged his podcast and cried because, for the first time, someone had put words to the C in C-PTSD. When I finally invited him over for dinner, I prepped harder than I had for most job interviews. I wanted it to go well. I wanted him to like me.

That was the beginning. But it didn’t stay there.

We got to know each other slowly, in layers—not as personas, but as friends. Real friends. The kind who show up tired. Who laugh at the wrong things. Who know each other’s moods, patterns, and tells. The kind who sometimes annoy each other, and work through it anyway.

Messy, flawed, flesh-and-blood humans.

That’s what connection looks like when it’s real.

You don’t need to be ashamed for wanting connection. You just need to know when the connection isn’t real—and stop acting like it is.

Because healing doesn’t come from being seen by someone who doesn’t know you.

It doesn’t come from likes, comments, replies, or even beautifully written essays that make you feel understood for a moment.

It comes from being known; not just, or even necessarily, from being admired.

From showing up messy and being met with patience. From letting someone close enough to witness the parts you didn’t curate, edit, or share in a caption.

Real healing starts when you stop performing closeness and start practicing it.

Because the kind of connection that saves you doesn’t come from being followed.

It comes from being found.

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