Hi, I'm a hopeless romantic, and I fall for it every single time. You know that feeling when someone new walks into your orbit and suddenly the world shifts? When their laugh becomes your favorite song and you find yourself crafting elaborate scenarios in your head about your imaginary future together? When you're checking your phone every thirty seconds, hoping for a text, and when it comes, you screenshot it to analyze the punctuation with your friends? Yeah, that's me. Every damn time. I've been down this rabbit hole so many times I could draw you a map of every twist and turn. Yet here I am again, daydreaming about someone who probably doesn't even know my middle name, building castles in the air while my rational brain screams warnings I refuse to hear. The Beautiful Delusion I Can't Quit There's a word for what I do to myself: limerence. Some psychologist named Dorothy Tennov coined it back in the 70s to describe this involuntary, all-consuming romantic obsession that feels like love but operates more like a fever dream. It's characterized by intrusive thoughts (check), emotional dependency (double check), and an overwhelming need for the other person to feel the same way (triple check with a cherry on top). I know all this because I've googled "why do I fall so hard so fast" approximately 847 times at 2 AM while lying in bed thinking about how they said "see you later" instead of "goodbye" and what that could possibly mean. The thing is, I love being in love. I love the way it makes colors brighter and songs more meaningful. I love how suddenly every rom-com feels like a documentary about my life. I love the electricity of possibility, the way hope tastes like honey and makes me feel like I could conquer mountains or at least finally organize my closet. But I also know it's killing me, slowly, beautifully, repeatedly. My Brain on Love: A Chemical Romance Here's what's really happening up there in my lovesick brain, and why I keep falling into this gorgeous trap despite knowing better. When I see their name pop up on my phone, my brain dumps a massive hit of dopamine – the same chemical that makes gambling addictive and cocaine dangerous. It's literally a high, and like any addict, I keep chasing it. The cruel genius of romantic obsession is that it operates on what scientists call "intermittent reinforcement." They text back sometimes, smile at me occasionally, give me just enough attention to keep the dopamine slot machine spinning. Meanwhile, my serotonin levels – the brain chemical that keeps obsessive thoughts in check – plummet. This is why I can spend three hours analyzing a two-word text message and somehow find seventeen different meanings in "sounds good." My brain literally cannot stop thinking about them because it doesn't have the chemical brakes it needs. And the stress hormone cortisol? It's having a field day, keeping me in a constant state of romantic anxiety. Am I reading too much into that emoji? Did they seem distant today? Why haven't they watched my Instagram story yet? I know all this. I understand the neuroscience. I could probably teach a college course on the biochemistry of romantic obsession. Yet knowing doesn't stop the feeling – it just adds a layer of self-aware torture to the whole experience. Why We're Wired for This Beautiful Madness Sometimes I wonder if I'm broken, if there's something fundamentally wrong with the way I love. But then I remember that this brain of mine, this ridiculous romantic computer, evolved over millions of years. My ancestors who fell hard and fast were the ones who paired up, had babies, and passed on their genes. Limerence might have been an evolutionary advantage when finding a mate meant survival. The laser focus, the motivation to pursue someone despite obstacles, the willingness to abandon all rational thought for love – these traits helped our ancestors form the pair bonds necessary for raising vulnerable human babies. Of course, what worked great in small tribal communities becomes a bit problematic when you're trying to navigate modern dating with its endless options and social media complications. My stone-age brain keeps firing up its ancient mate-selection program in a world of dating apps and mixed signals. The Difference Between This and Real Love (I Think) Here's what I've learned through painful experience: what I do isn't actually love, even though it feels like the most intense love possible. Real love, the kind that lasts, grows slowly and steadily. It's based on actually knowing someone – their flaws, their weird habits, their 3 AM thoughts – and choosing them anyway. It's secure and stable and doesn't make you feel like you're constantly on the edge of a cliff. Limerence is different. I idealize people I barely know, filling in the gaps with fantasy. I'm not actually in love with them – I'm in love with the version of them I've created in my head, plus the way they make me feel about myself. It's inherently unstable because it's built on projection rather than reality. Real love says, "I want to know you better." Limerence says, "I need you to save me from myself." Real love is patient. Limerence is desperate. Real love can handle uncertainty. Limerence feeds on it like fuel. The Cycle I Can't Seem to Break I recognize the pattern now. I meet someone and within days I'm planning our anniversary. I lose myself completely, abandoning my own interests and friends to focus entirely on them. I interpret every interaction as either proof of reciprocal feeling or devastating rejection. I live in extremes – either floating on air or crashing into despair. Then reality sets in. They don't text back immediately and I spiral. They mention another person and I'm convinced it's over before it started. The fantasy I built crumbles because it was never based on anything real to begin with. The comedown is brutal. It feels like withdrawal because neurochemically, it is withdrawal. My dopamine-flooded brain suddenly finds itself in a desert, and everything feels gray and pointless. But then I pick myself up, dust off my heart, and do it all over again. Because despite the pain, despite knowing better, I can't seem to stop believing in love. And maybe I don't want to. Living with a Romantic Heart in a Complicated World I've tried to change. I've read self-help books and practiced mindfulness and gone to therapy. I've learned to recognize the signs earlier, to pause before I dive headfirst into fantasy. Sometimes I even succeed in pulling back before I'm completely lost. But honestly? I don't want to stop being someone who believes in magic. I don't want to become cynical or guarded or practical about love. Yes, limerence is painful and often destructive, but it's also taught me that I'm capable of profound feeling. It's shown me that my heart is big and brave and willing to risk everything for connection. Maybe the goal isn't to stop falling so hard, but to learn to fall more wisely. To recognize limerence for what it is – a beautiful, temporary madness – without letting it completely derail my life. To enjoy the dopamine rush while remembering it's not actually love. Maybe the real trick is learning to love the experience of loving, even when it's unrequited, even when it's one-sided, even when it ends in heartbreak. Because in a world that often feels cold and disconnected, isn't there something beautiful about a heart that refuses to close? I'm still a hopeless romantic. I still fall for it every time. But now at least I know what's happening in my brain when I do. And somehow, that makes the whole messy, wonderful, terrible experience feel a little more human. After all, we're all just walking chemistry sets looking for other chemistry sets to react with. Some reactions create beautiful fireworks that burn out quickly. Others build steady, warming fires that last for decades. I'm still learning the difference. But I'm not giving up on either.