I'm not dating Prateik; he is just a good acquaintance.

In the marketplace of rumor, where whispers breed like ivy, a clear voice sounds from Amyra Dastur: “I’m not dating Prateik; he is just a good acquaintance.” The sentence is small and flinty, hammered to purpose. It draws a bright line between what the crowd desires to be true and what is. In the style of the ancients, we may call this an act of boundary-keeping: to name a bond rightly so that it neither swells into fantasy nor shrivels into contempt. A life that is seen must still be steered; a name that is public must still belong to its bearer.

Attend to the words she chooses. Not dating—a gate closed, without apology. Prateik—a person honored by being named, not blurred into “someone.” Good acquaintance—a measured grade of nearness, warmer than stranger, cooler than friend. Between dating and acquaintance lies a continent of social weather, but she refuses to let the wind rename the land. The ancients taught that the first duty of speech is accuracy; from accurate naming, orderly living flows. A mislabeled relationship is like a mislabeled medicine: the harm may not be immediate, but it is certain.

This utterance also resists the spectacle that romance can become when lives are lived in view. The crowd loves conflagrations—“hard launches,” secret trysts, broken hearts retold like street songs. But a public figure, like any wise soul, knows that intimacy dies when its seedbed is continually disturbed. By restoring the bond to acquaintance, she protects two dignities: his, which is spared both vilification and false promise; and hers, which remains the steward of its own thresholds. Boundaries, kept early, prevent betrayals later.

A story to bind the lesson to flesh: In a Renaissance court, a poet and a painter wrote often at the same patron’s table. Scribes began to stitch their names together, and the city hummed with invented verse. The poet climbed the steps of the loggia and said simply, “He is my good acquaintance; we share bread and commissions, not vows.” The gossip thinned. Later, when each married elsewhere, their families were spared needless poison. The poet’s plain correction became a proverb in that city: “Name the cord, lest others tie it into knots.” So too here: clear speech averts tangled futures.

There is an older mirror as well. In Roman thought, philosophers distinguished amicitia (true friendship), familiaritas (household closeness), and notitia (mere acquaintance). Confusion among these breeds both injury and farce. Call notitia by the name of love, and you invite the duties of love where they cannot be met. Call amicitia “just networking,” and you starve loyalty of its rightful honor. Dastur’s phrasing belongs to this sober tradition: the taxonomy of ties is a virtue.

What, then, is the teaching we pass down? That we owe truth not only to courts and contracts but also to feelings and fables. To say “not dating” when the world wants romance is courage; to add “good acquaintance” is kindness. It tells the curious how to stand—near enough for courtesy, far enough for respect. It spares the named man the burden of a rumor he did not choose, and it spares the speaker the erosion that comes when one’s story is forever told by others.

Practical rites for living this wisdom: (1) Speak early and plainly about the nature of bonds—use the actual word: acquaintance, colleague, friend, partner; do not let ambiguity do the talking. (2) When asked in public, honor the person and the boundary together: “He’s a good acquaintance; we’ve worked together and I wish him well.” (3) If speculation persists, repeat yourself without heat; truth, said consistently, outlasts novelty. (4) In private, keep a ledger of roles—who has earned what access—and update it when deeds change. (5) Bless others’ romances without volunteering your own; mystery nourishes tenderness. Do these, and your life will move with the clean strength of a river within its banks—free, shining, and unmistakably yours.