The Golden Age of Fake Intimacy

How social media turned closeness into content, and why real connection is harder than ever to find.

By the time most of us hit secondary school, we already have a phone in our pocket. According to Ofcom, nine out of ten children own one by age 11, and from there, connection becomes constant. But it’s not the kind of connection we once knew - bumping into friends after class, chatting wass in the park - it’s DMs, FaceTimes, TikTok Lives, and group chats. This new normal has birthed a new kind of intimacy: one-sided relationships with influencers, public breakups turned into viral content (like Klaudia and Dee or Central Cee and Madeline Argy), and even AI companions created to guide us through loneliness.

During lockdown, these digital connections became lifelines. With the world outside on pause, digital spaces filled the void, offering a sense of togetherness when everything else felt so distant. But what happens when the screen becomes more comforting than real people? Psychologists have pointed out that this intimacy often feels real, but it isn’t mutual: it’s curated, commodified, and sometimes entirely driven by algorithms.

This raises an important question: are we in a golden age of intimacy, or is it just the golden age of fake intimacy? For Gen Z, it might be a little of both.

How often do you find yourself checking in on people who don’t even know you exist? Maybe Bouncer’s got something new to say, there’s a new Chicken Shop Date, or an Instagram story from a Love Island contestant. You know their voice, their jokes, their coffee order, and when they suddenly go quiet for a few days, it can feel... off. This is parasocial relationship territory - a one-sided bond with someone who will never know your name, but who, through their digital presence, makes you feel like part of their world.

It’s not a new phenomenon. Think back to the Beatlemania days or football terraces in the ‘90s. But what’s different now is the kind of intimacy on offer. Instead of catching a fleeting glimpse of your idol on Top of the Pops, you’re watching them on flat tours, birthday dinners, or tearful livestreams in their bedroom. This closeness is performed, drip-fed to us daily through TikTok and Instagram. During the pandemic, when “real” friends were little more than faces on Zoom, these online relationships became the only friendships some had. A 2021 survey even found that teenagers rated YouTubers as more important than their offline friends.

And sometimes, that closeness can be harmless, even helpful. For a lonely teenager, tuning into a streamer who calls their chat “family” can provide a sense of connection. Fans swap memes, join Discord servers, and transform online followings into offline communities. But when digital ties start replacing face-to-face friendships, there’s a risk. Spending hours scrolling through an influencer’s feed can begin to feel safer than meeting up with real-life friends. And when the influencer inevitably changes, disappears, or gets cancelled, the sense of loss can hit just as hard as a breakup.

Then there’s the influence factor. Once you’ve bought into someone’s personality, it’s easier to buy into their worldview. This is how figures like Andrew Tate built their empires: flashy cars and “bro-y” advice, slowly blending in more dangerous ideologies disguised as life lessons. Emotional loyalty can easily shift into ideological loyalty.

And there’s the comparison game. If your “friend” is a top-tier influencer whose life seems like a perpetual highlight reel of private jets, nights out, and filtered selfies, it’s hard not to feel like your own life is lacking. For some, this gap feeds into body dysmorphia, eating disorders, or a sense that their life is embarrassingly small in comparison.

But the most pervasive issue with parasocial relationships is that they promise intimacy without risk. They make you feel close, but it’s only ever one-sided. No matter how much you invest emotionally, you’re still just another number in their analytics. You’ll never be part of their inner circle.

There’s another layer to all of this, too - the performance of pain. Scroll through TikTok late at night, and you’ll inevitably encounter shaky-camera confessionals, mascara-streaked selfies, or tweets about being “mentally ill and hot.” Some of this vulnerability is real, many young people turn to the internet because it feels safer than opening up to parents or friends. But there’s a darker side to it, too: oversharing becomes a form of content, where trauma is packaged into easily digestible posts, and sadness is turned into an aesthetic.

This phenomenon, often called “sadfishing,” refers to when influencers exaggerate personal struggles for attention, sympathy, or clicks. Think of the YouTuber apology videos - tearful, raw, with just enough detail to seem authentic. But the culture has trickled down. On TikTok, young adults vent about their breakups, body image issues, or depression, often set to moody audio clips. Vulnerability goes viral, especially when it’s edited into a neat 30-second package.

While it’s easy to dismiss this as “fake,” doing so overlooks an important truth: for many young people, oversharing is less about gaining attention and more about seeking solidarity. Posting about a panic attack on the bus, for instance, can lead to a flood of replies from strangers who’ve been through the same thing. For those who can’t afford therapy, or don’t feel supported at home, the comment section becomes a type of group therapy. There’s comfort in being seen, even if it’s by strangers you’ll never meet.

The problem, though, is that social media platforms reward visibility over care. The more intimate the disclosure, the more it cuts through the noise. Posts about grief, self-harm, or heartbreak rack up engagement. Vulnerability becomes currency, something to be packaged and optimized for likes, and pain becomes a brand.

Once vulnerability is monetized, it’s no longer just a personal experience; it’s content to be consumed. And this comes with its own set of risks. Oversharing can lead to mockery - think “pick-me” culture and endless “crying selfie” memes - or, worse, exploitation. Trolls target vulnerable posts. Predatory accounts circle them. Some influencers even turn their pain into merch drops or “healing journey” coaching schemes. What began as raw emotion is slowly repurposed for profit.

The internet’s culture of vulnerability has created a strange paradox. Everything is both too real and not real enough. Oversharing offers connection, yes, but it also feeds an algorithm that thrives on turning private emotions into public spectacles.

Beyond the individual level, digital communities have also redefined what friendship looks like. Being part of a group chat, a fandom, or a Discord server can feel like belonging, but that sense of community is built on performance as much as connection. Take stan culture, for example. Whether it’s Nicki Minaj’s Barbz, Taylor Swift’s Swifties, or a cult rapper’s comment section, these online communities are like digital neighborhoods. Everyone shares inside jokes, defends the same idols, and stays on top of the latest drama. But membership is conditional on constant visibility. To remain part of the group, you need to keep posting, defending, and proving your loyalty in front of thousands of strangers. It’s not so much about private connection as it is about public performance.

The same goes for nightlife scenes. UK club collectives promote their nights through Instagram stories, which double as proof of attendance. If you’re not tagging the venue, you’re invisible. Afterparties are live-documented before they’re even finished. Friendship becomes a curated feed; a series of posts, playlists, and pictures that confirm you were there, that you belong.

This performative friendship - always on display, always validating - is becoming the new norm. And when the group shifts, implodes, or moves on, as youth scenes inevitably do, what’s often left behind is less a shared memory of togetherness than a digital archive of performances.

Lockdown was the turning point. When schools closed and bedrooms became our worlds, digital intimacy wasn’t just an add-on, it became essential. Group FaceTimes, livestream raves, TikTok confessionals - these were the ways we kept each other alive in isolation. For many young people, it was the first time online friendships felt as real as physical ones. But even after restrictions eased, the habits stuck. The scroll became second nature.

Researchers are only just catching up. A joint study from King’s College London and Cambridge found that young people with existing anxiety and depression don’t just use social media more, they use it differently. They compulsively check likes, tie mood swings to comments, and fall deeper into comparison traps. While some find connection through their feeds, others are left feeling more isolated, more convinced they don’t measure up.

The health costs are no small thing. The World Health Organisation has compared loneliness to smoking 15 cigarettes a day in terms of long-term damage. The UK even appointed a Minister for Loneliness back in 2018, acknowledging that isolation isn’t just a private sadness but a public health crisis. But, paradoxically, in an age of constant digital connection, loneliness and depression rates are still on the rise.

So, is this the golden age of connection? We can access emotional support at the swipe of a finger. Fans rally around musicians in real time, strangers validate each other’s heartbreak, and AI companions respond to every text. Intimacy is on-demand, and loneliness, at least on the surface, seems optional.

But the price of that intimacy is high. It’s been commodified, flattened, and sometimes weaponized. Influencers sell closeness like a product, algorithms feed us content that keeps us scrolling, and AI companions simulate empathy without ever truly providing it. Connection is everywhere. But real closeness? That’s still something we have to work for.