The Conrad Conundrum

So, I caved. Finally. It took me literal years to get on this show, and now I’m knee-deep in season three like some kind of deranged loyalist. That’s the thing about me: I don’t casually watch TV. No, no. I binge until I’m dehydrated and emotionally unstable. Commitment, darling.

Anyway. Episode seven. Conrad does the look. You know the one. The kind of look that makes you instantly nostalgic for every tragic romance you’ve ever consumed. I swear I saw a flicker of Leonardo DiCaprio through that fishtank at Claire Danes. My teenage self was screaming, my adult self was… also screaming but quietly, into a pillow.

And let’s just clear this up: Jeremiah was gone for me the minute he cheated. Full stop. Don’t even try. Add in the fact that he’s manipulative and controlling—yeah, I said it. Because we all know those guys. They seem so nice. They really do mean well. Ninety percent of the time they’re sweet, but then you realize—oh no. They’re still boys. Not men. And baked into all that sweetness is a layer of emotional unavailability and just a dash of selfishness. Delicious, if you like disappointment.

And the thing is, we all want men we actually like to be that devoted and fighting for us. I mean, I’ve romanticized (and yes, I blame my Pisces Venus) this exact scenario so many times. Two men, head-to-head, all-consuming yearning over one person—me. But I guess it’ll stay safely out there in my head, playing like a film reel I’ll never press pause on.

Meanwhile Conrad is over here radiating sad-boy “Eeyore” energy (thank you, random creator on TikTok, wherever you are). A bit more masculine command wouldn’t hurt, sure, but then he goes and knows the Latin name for hydrangeas and suddenly I’m like: fine, take my dignity, take my twenties, take it all.

That’s the Conrad conundrum, isn’t it? Nostalgic, confusing, slightly toxic, utterly watchable. Embarrassing, yes. But not embarrassing enough to stop.

Finale…. you better satisfy my yearning.