Limerence

Ronald was lying in his bed. It was 2:20 AM, he checked a minute ago.

He never would’ve thought that googling the meaning of a word that he half-heard in a conversation would keep him up all night. To be fair, he still had 5 hours until his alarm went off, so there was a decent chance it wouldn’t.

He thought back to his date the previous day. It was her who asked him out. A nice change for once.

He enjoyed the coffee and the conversation. She even managed to make him laugh once, which was quite impressive. Don’t get me wrong, he laughed often, but it was always deliberate. Out of politeness, out of awkwardness, or just to show his appreciation for someone trying to amuse him. Not often did he laugh because of his inability to hold it in, and yet here he was.

There were no sparks. He wasn’t naïve enough to believe in sparks, of course. Still, it would’ve been nice.

He rolled onto his left side and stared at the drawn curtains.

All those books, poems, and movies. Were they all really just the product of humanity’s general lack of emotional intelligence and self-awareness? When they described or showcased the beauty of love, it seemed so magical. And turns out, it wasn’t. Beautiful? No, that it might have been - who was he to decide whether a feeling, regardless of how healthy or unhealthy it is, was objectively beautiful or not. But whether it was love? Now that is questionable.

Leading psychologists and evolutionary biologists are of the opinion that our brains were not evolved with modern society in mind. We have found too many ways to tickle ourselves pink, without the actual need of lifting finger nor feather. We, in turn, do not ever want to stop.

Next to dopamine (or rather the following opioid) addiction, sits its little sister, betrothed to - among others - athletes whose definition of a relaxing weekend consists of a marathon with a 12kg weight belt.

Adrenaline addiction, the one that (self-proclaimed) horror movie fans, junkies, and connoisseurs (the more syllables, usually the more annoying the person) pretend to be so fond of.

He was sure there existed half-monkey-half-men hybrids in the past who repeatedly poked the tiger in the bum with a sizeable stick, simply because they longed for a bit more extreme version of tag. Therefore, the aforementioned scientists who want to pull a Rousseau so badly and blame everything on society should really start seeing the bigger picture.

Regardless, who would have thought that the infatuation one feels towards their "special someone" is the same nervous feeling an introvert feels on their fifth fake bathroom break at a house party they were kind-of-invited to?

Ronald understood how someone could be addicted to skydiving, but that feeling? Right, there are people who crave attention yet (or rather because) they are anxious to their core. Celebrities, is what they are called nowadays.

Longing for the presence and affection of someone that might send our confession with a curveball flying might not, at least in our heads, feel so different than finding ourselves in the non-proverbial lion’s den.

The existence of the newly found word had widespread implications, and many things thought pure started showing their raw, uglier side. Turns out, people do things because it feels nice or exciting, not because it is good for them. Who would have thought?

“Well, I can’t undo it now,” he muttered to himself. Great, he was talking to himself now. He didn’t do it to amplify his feeling of finality, but to show he didn’t care if someone was listening in.

Ronald turned to his other side.

If he had been asked a week before whether he had ever been in love, he would’ve answered, “Of course, multiple times even!” If he had been asked if he had ever fallen in love, he would’ve hesitated for a moment there (there was something that unsettled him about the phrasing, maybe the helplessness the word "falling" implied), but ultimately would’ve arrived at a similar answer.

A week from now, when asked again, he would probably also provide a similar response, as he wouldn’t want to bore his conversation partners with his own inaptitude towards emotional reflection.

Today was different, though. He felt mildly intoxicated (the moon brings out one’s honesty, or something similar is what his grandfather used to say), and decided to let his thoughts wander on a looser leash.

He grabbed his pillow and turned it around, and was mildly disappointed by the temperature of the other side.

If somebody pinned either of the aforementioned two questions at him, he would’ve, with a fake casualness in his voice, said, “I dunno.”

Maybe love was something complicated, only describable in quantum physics terms. While someone is living their life on autopilot, they think they are in love. But the moment they develop an ounce of self-awareness, it starts looking more like a ticket to a psychologist.

He remembered a paper he read years ago, detailing an experiment which proved the duality of light. When someone looked at light, it was a pearl (Ronald has looked at light before, and he was pretty sure it wasn’t, but let’s humour them for a moment). When you didn’t look at it, it was a wave. How did the scientists know what light looked like unobserved, when they weren’t even looking at it, I wonder? Regardless, the point he was trying to make is things seem different when we are paying attention to them, to when we’re not. Maybe love is the product of such half-observations. Looking at it just enough to know it’s there, but not long enough to actually see what it is.

He turned on his stomach, hoping it would help, fully knowing it wouldn’t.

How does someone know they are in love? Or better yet, does one ever know if they are in love? If the feeling of wanting the presence, attention, and love of someone is itself an addiction, it was hard to believe anyone with a semi-functional nervous system was free of this disease.

Even so, while it is true that alcoholics do exist, people who just casually enjoy a glass of red wine or an occasional espresso martini without any withdrawal symptoms are all the same alive and well. This analogy might be a faulty one, though, Ronald thought, as a "casual enjoyer of another person" hardly sounds romantic, not to mention something remotely close to love and commitment.

He heard somewhere (God knows he forgot where) that true love is without Ifs and Buts; it does not want, it doesn’t expect anything back - not even love.

The sun is the perfect example. It shines down on everything and everyone. Many enjoy it, many are grateful for it, but there are also others, predominantly Brits and vampires, who despise it. The sun shines down still (well, not in Britain, but that’s beside the point), and gifts vitamin D and potential skin cancer with its love to everyone. Sounds nice when talking about a celestial body a bit of a road trip away. If someone in your neighbourhood treated you with the same unconditional and unending love, it would either end them up in a chapel getting married, or with a restraining order.

Still, that seemed to be closer to the true nature of love than the rollercoaster the temporary presence of a partner followed by their absence induces. One just needs to be smart about it, and learn that "no", with the rare and quite confusing exception of playing hard to get, or defaulting to an immature way of acting and searching for satisfaction in our partner’s hurt feelings, or when someone is in the early stages of learning a new language and keeps confusing the words, indeed always means "no".

With a groan amplified by his displeasure and the quiet of the night, he sat up in his bed, threw his legs on the ground, and stumbled towards the light switch. He zoned out and forgot his train of thought while he waited for the kettle to boil, and poured some water on the filter. Chamomile with lavender. The process of boiling and drinking the tea was more important than the effects of the herbs, but he thought he might as well try something that supposedly helps with falling asleep.

Ah, yes, falling. He has heard that actual, real, not-anxiety-being-confused-with love is slow. Instead of the common love-at-first-sight “suddenly the ground disappeared and I’m plummeting towards the unknown” type of falling, it’s more gradual, like after opening a parachute, or when a number-shaped balloon half-filled with helium slowly dejects two weeks after a birthday party.

Four minutes had passed, and he hesitated between drinking the tea in the kitchen or in his bed. His cold feet were the deciding factor, and he stumbled back towards his bedroom, quickly getting back under his covers.

So, one should start dating someone, and date that person if he enjoys hanging out with them, is sufficiently attracted to them, and trusts them at a level reasonable to their time spent together. And then, if everything goes well, love develops.

The thought terrified Ronald beyond belief.

He could date someone (the girl from his previous date, just to name an example) for Lord knows how long, and then maybe, just maybe, love will happen?

He would rather spend a full night betting on red again and again until the sun comes up to greet his (let’s be honest, he was hardly a lucky person) horrendous losses.

At least he would find some perverted joy in gambling, and whatever the outcome, the process itself will be pleasurable. But now that he gave it some thought…

Spending time with someone he enjoys spending time with (and maybe, just maybe, simultaneously waiting for love to happen) hardly sounds like torture. Not to mention if it is someone he trusts and is attracted to. If he got all that, why would he need love? He wouldn’t need the fake kinda love with the new label he learnt today, and he wouldn’t need the real love, whatever mystical thing it might be. If he can just spend time with someone he enjoys spending time with, he would be satisfied and, if he had to hazard a guess, emotionally fulfilled too.

He was drifting off to sleep now. But before he did, he thought to himself, maybe true love is when you are satisfied with spending time with someone, and don’t need true love to happen. He chuckled at the thought - a chuckle made out of politeness towards himself. He fell asleep four hours before his alarm rang.

The chamomile tea was left steaming on the nightstand.