The word ‘muse’ tends to conjure someone untouchable, perfect yet just close enough to keep us tethered. Glory, but never so much that we drift away. Somehow, in all its madness, my muse came wrapped in a heavy pair of drop-crotch pants, though he did not start that way. 

The first time I saw him, I was eight, clutching a Claire’s necklace like it was a promise. He had swoopy hair, an oversized purple hoodie and thankfully no drop-crotch pants yet. But that crooked smile was enough to make me abandon my multiplication tables and turn to more pressing matters: his birth time (12:56 am Monday, March 1st, 1994, ofcourse), his favourite colour, his parents and every detail that explained who he was and how he managed to captivate millions of fans around the world.

When I look back on that part of my life, I realise being a Belieber was never just a phase. It was a full-time commitment. My identity seemed rooted in devotion: to serve, defend and prove I was the most loyal fan out there. That kind of devotion leaves its marks. My bedroom was the first to fall, slowly morphing into a shrine lined with posters, magazine clippings and the scent of bubblegum perfume. Then went my free time, swallowed whole by every interview, performance and paparazzi photo, each one studied like sacred text. But the deepest loss was myself, poured entirely into a relationship that could never exist.

In my mind, though, we were spiritually connected. That delusion marked the beginning of a parasocial relationship, a one-sided connection where admiration begins to feel a lot like intimacy.

These relationships are rarely born organically. They’re constructed, often orchestrated through interviews, paparazzi snapshots and behind-the-scenes glimpses. The access I thought I had came at a steep cost to his privacy. The 2000s paparazzi era didn’t just document celebrity lives, it swallowed them whole. Think Britney Spears trapped in camera flashes, Lindsay Lohan dragged into court or a teenage Justin Bieber pulling his hoodie tight while slipping into a car. These weren’t just pictures; they were portals into exhaustion, vulnerability and kids trying to grow up under scrutiny. We consumed it like content, forgetting that these moments weren’t curated, they were stolen.

In Seasons, Justin Bieber’s 2020 docuseries, his creative director Ryan Good quietly mentioned that Justin had endured “a six-month period where it was really tough for him.” The confession landed softly but carried weight. By then, we had been conditioned to the chaos, to the highs and the headlines. Emotions felt like extras we had not paid for. But were we ever owed them? Probably not. That did not stop us from leaning in, becoming part of a culture that mistook observation for care, watching as if it meant we were helping. My own diary entries often began with, “I love Justin, I hope he’s okay,” as if my love had weight, even though the cost of receiving it fell on someone else’s shoulders.

Parasocial connections do not just stir up emotion, they distort reality. They make distance feel close and turn fantasy into familiarity. I knew he would never read my letters or notice my tweets, yet the connection still felt real. Love became something I measured through interviews, playlists and moments that were never mine to begin with.

On a slightly different note, parasocial love shaped the way I understood loyalty. It taught me that affection could live in silence and that longing could thrive in absence. It changed how I formed connections and how I showed up for people. Even now, I wonder how many parts of my heart are still echoing in a bedroom wallpapered with posters of someone who never knew my name.

When we talk about parasocial relationships, the focus is almost always on the fans, rarely on the stars. What does it mean to be loved by millions who will never meet you? To be the target of adoration so intense it stops feeling like affection and starts to feel like surveillance? Celebrity becomes a strange burden, where your pain turns into public property and your smile becomes someone’s coping mechanism.

It feels even more complicated today, with the lines between celebrities and fans blurrier than ever. Social media has collapsed the distance between us, making it easy to believe we are part of someone’s inner circle. We know their pets’ names, their heartbreaks, their skincare rituals and every detail feels personal even when it isn’t. So maybe the question isn’t why we fall so hard for people who don’t know us, but why we keep building systems that reward emotional labour without reciprocity. Why do we keep mistaking visibility for connection? And why, in a world overflowing with access, do we still feel the need to bind ourselves to someone else’s story just to make sense of our own?

Maybe the bond between us and our idols is like a pair of drop-crotch pants, hanging loose by a single thread. We know it will never fit quite right, yet we keep wearing it because letting go feels emptier than holding on.

Article by Nicholi De Silva