I’m perched on the edge of a sticky vinyl seat in a restaurant that’s too dim to reveal my restlessness, quietly evaluating if there’s an easy way out. In my experience, dating has rarely been about butterflies and rosy sunglasses. Usually, it entails a methodological analysis of ticking boxes and well-practiced “It’s not you, it’s me” all the while having one foot out the door, planning a quick Irish exit. If I look at it head-on, this night is less about the person sitting across from me— whose gestures I catalog as if I were logging data—and more about the apparatus of dating itself: the small talk, the precarious dance between closeness and retreat, and the endless compulsion to clarify my emotional disclaimers before anyone grows too hopeful.
Growing up I was bombarded with love-at-first sight narratives, where soulmates were found by longing side glances on trains and brief shoulder touches at quirky bookshops. At school we plastered pictures of Zayn Malik on our lockers, took Twilight heartthrobs as the golden standard of desire, and giggled through endless daydreams. But soon we grew up from being 13, silly… and cringe? Albeit, in our 20s, we stumbled through messy “I love yous,” only to learn— sometimes the hard way—to be more cautious. Love soon became Love— something bigger, heavier, and not so easily given away. Exhausted by the confines of the male gaze and manic-pixie dream girl tropes, I read about the Bechdel test and ran with it. Yet what began as an exercise to prove the depth of the female mind, somehow, turned into a quiet refusal of desire itself.
In All About Love, American author bell hooks challenges us to find “the meaning of love beyond the realm of fantasy– beyond what we imagine can happen.” Yes, stepping outside of fantasy is important, but I also think that there’s something to be said about letting our imaginations run wild and remembering how to long. Today, infatuation and fantasy seem to be dismissed as trivial—childish indulgences we’re expected to outgrow. At times, they’re even pathologized, with my feed flooded with videos on how to “cure limerence,” neatly diagnosing its “symptoms” and offering step-by-step fixes to break free from the daze and haze. Sure, I’ve watched friends romanticize people who never deserved to be bathed in such golden, glittering hues. But does that mean limerence altogether should be discredited?
Coined by psychologist Dorothy Tennov in the 1970s, limerence describes that potent mix of intense infatuation and obsession—usually unreciprocated, or at least unconfirmed. The crush quickly snowballs into an obsession—an all-consuming daydream where being out of reach becomes half the appeal. It reminds me of when I mocked my friend for buying yet another lottery ticket, to which she replied, “I know I’ll never win, but for just six euros a week, I get to dream about what I’d do with the money if I did.” Maybe that’s the freedom of limerence, too—losing yourself in possibility, disentangling from the reality of bad first dates, ghosting, and your own self-critical voice.
Alain De Botton, in Essays on Love, talks about how our fantasies and obsessions reveal a part of ourselves. While they may not be rooted in the “real,” the stories we project onto another illuminate the corners of our identity we’d otherwise overlook. Yes, fantasies might be messy, fleeting, and mostly ridiculous; but maybe there’s something to be learned from letting a little of the chaos in. Crushes, after all, are like emotional improv: they’re unscripted, absurd, and just self-indulgent enough to remind you that falling— even in the shallow end— is still movement.
Caught in the wind rush, the last phase of limerence is when this euphoria quickly turns into frustration. Stuck in the whiplash of reckoning with what’s real and what’s fake, you become plagued with the guilt of losing control. Yet, in fantasy tropes and classic romance novels, uncertainty is a core mechanism of desire. There’s a reason why we keep coming back to the will they, won’t they narrative in our favorite rom-coms. It’s the reaching for something and not grasping fully, stretching into the uncertainty of “will I be desired back?” that builds anticipation. Yes, wanting is scary, but shouldn’t it be? It should cost you something to cede yourself in another. Or what would be the point?
As an over-analytical dater, leaning into limerence can help deconstruct this sense of rationality that inhibits us to just…fall. With each whirlwind of a crush, it may dismantle the hyper-rational approach that’s made dating feel like a dreaded to-do list. Let’s bring back yearning, learning to enjoy traversing that space between desire and fulfillment, letting our mind unravel, and dipping our toes into maybe.
Sure, love might be the goal, but what about the space in between? In a world driven by productivity and self-improvement, maybe we’ve lost the art of play. Love doesn’t always have to be framed by psychological language, attachment style infographics, and trauma responses (although quite helpful at times).
I think of a friend who is obsessed with obsession, perpetually enamored. With every coffee date there’s a new crush in tow—the next-door neighbor, the best friend’s cousin, the random guy in the café. It might seem silly and surface level at first but if you look closer, you see someone unbashful in exploring the kaleidoscope of her own desires. Meanwhile I’ve spent years whispering the faintest “I like you” under my breath as if it’s a dangerous secret.
I’m not saying we shouldn’t build nourishing relationships that bring about happy, tangible futures. But that doesn’t mean the fleeting, intense crush— the one that consumes you for exactly three weeks— can’t be equally valid. Each person holds up a mirror to our insecurities, our hopes, and slowly strengthens our ability to allow someone in.
Maybe love can just be love. Messy, scattered across multiple crushes, like confetti on the dance floor after the lights come on. We don’t have to pathologize every flutter in the stomach. So here’s to leaning into limerence. Here’s to acknowledging that if bell hooks wants us to step beyond fantasy, we first have to let ourselves dream. Instead of pulling off the perfect Irish exit, we linger in the doorway, letting the possibility unfold.
