I'll love you by leaving.

For someone with an avoidant attachment, what could be the most “perfect” form of connection? Perhaps it’s the silent “I need you” that catches in your throat just as the other person turns to leave. Or it could be the unexpected, pressure-free kindness from a stranger during a period of solitude. Or maybe it’s the sense of peace that comes when you finally muster the courage to express yourself, only to be met with rejection.

It’s a paradox, isn’t it? Avoidant attachment is the aesthetic of longing. It is this sensitive vulnerability and feigned distance that create a powerful tension between the repeated withdrawals from intimacy, the persistent yearning, and the relief of being let go.

As Sue Johnson wrote in Hold Me Tight (2008), “Detached lovers are not cold, they are frozen.” They are not incapable of love, nor do they lack the desire for it—they simply have not yet learned how to express or receive it. Instead, they choose solitude, distance, and deliberate emotional restraint to avoid the uncertainty, anxiety and mistrust that intimacy can bring.

This motif recurs throughout many works of science fiction. In Her (2013), the protagonist falls in love with an operating system—a being of pure voice and algorithm. Their connection is intimate yet intangible, a love that thrives precisely because it is safe from the physical world. Love becomes a “mirror circuit”: the subject falls in love with their own reflection rather than with the Other.

Similarly, in Blade Runner 2049 (2017), Joi, the holographic companion, embodies an artificial tenderness designed to fill the void of human connection. On a social level, this attachment also reveals the algorithmic and commodified nature of emotion under capitalism: humans are being tamed by the digitized tenderness of data-driven intimacy.

The powerlessness humans feel in real-life relationships leads to a carefree attachment to digital beings, a form of relief akin to drinking poison to quench thirst. It seems sweet, but it only traps one in an illusory fantasy. Are you truly in love with the highly abstracted qualities of humanity, or merely with your own one-sided projection?

To make this concept more concrete, two installations at Ars Electronica provided me with inspiration. One was a piece called Dynamics of Dog on a Leash by Takayuki Todo, featuring an angry robotic dog on a leash. The dog tried every possible way to break free, fiercely pulling against its restraint. When it charged toward the audience, the crowd instinctively took a step back, and the dog lunged forward again. At first, I stood in the corner just other spectators. But when it charged toward me, instead of backing away, I squatted down, moved closer, and reached out my hand, trying to pet it. However, it instinctively shrank back, just like a real puppy bluffing to make itself seem brave.

Another work, Rainbow by Yari Häfele, creates a rainbow using millions of tiny glass beads affixed to a black background. When you step back, a clear rainbow emerges; but as you approach to get a closer look, it disappears. Although my interpretation and purpose may differ from the artist’s, my first reaction to these two installations was the recognition of avoidant attachment as a human trait.

I’ve always wanted to visualize this trait. If it were an artificial being with avoidant attachment, how would it manifest? The first mediums that came to mind were light and bubbles. Imagine a small, glowing bubble. It might hide in corners or behind curtains. When you come too close, it floats away; but when you step back, it drifts toward you again. And in that instant when you, recklessly, reach out to touch it—or when it decides to make contact with you at all costs, it pops like a bubble.

The tiny light particles inside dissipate around you like mist. Is this little creature dead? Or has it finally broken free from the confines of the bubble and been reborn? There is no definitive answer; it is for the experiencer to feel and interpret for themselves.