I used to believe that love would feel like lightning.
That when it came, it would burn through the noise, sear through doubt, and illuminate everything. But what if the spark we call “chemistry” isn’t enough anymore?
What if chemistry has become just another illusion, a fizz of dopamine, a swipe-right, a ghost of a voice note at 2AM?
We are living in a world where connection is endless, and intimacy is scarce.
We have apps that tell us who we’re compatible with. Algorithms that match our interests. Mood trackers that chart our highs and lows better than any lover could.
Still, we sit across from each other, talking in emojis, pausing too long before answering a text, waiting for someone to say something that feels real.
I’ve said “I love you” through a glass screen more times than I care to admit.
I’ve watched my words be read at 11:42 PM and go unanswered. I’ve written messages like incantations, hoping they might summon presence, attention, anything resembling a heartbeat.
But what does love mean in a world where you can curate your affection? Where you can schedule your vulnerability for after work hours? Where “miss you” is a default phrase, typed without looking up?
We take pills to calm down. To sleep. To feel better.
We drink to forget or to open up or to loosen the truth.
We learn to say just enough, never too much.
We guard our hearts like they’re data to be encrypted.
We meet, we vibe, we part, and we pretend that that strange ache inside is just something we ate.
Maybe we’re not afraid of commitment.
Maybe we’re afraid of exposure.
Because real love doesn’t just ask for your best angles and curated playlists. It asks for the version of you that’s anxious at 3AM, that forgets how to be cool, that can’t hide behind seven filters.
And that’s terrifying.
But maybe that’s what we’re longing for too.
Something messy. Something raw. Something that can’t be measured in compatibility percentages or reduced to “we’ve got great chemistry.”
Chemistry can start a fire.
But it takes presence to keep it burning.
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