Limerence: Sponsored by My Own Imagination
The relationship was fictional. The heartbreak wasn't.
Why is it that my one-month situationship emotionally crippled me more than a four-year relationship?
The answer is potential.
When you go through the stages of a long-term relationship, the initial potential eventually becomes clear. You either exceed it or fall painfully short of it. Either way, reality comes knocking.
But when a budding romance gets cut short, that potential is left on delivered.
Your imagination takes over, directing a torturous highlight reel of hypothetical best moments. Your first holiday. Your engagement in the Italian countryside. Your wedding in the South of France. Three children and a golden retriever called Max.
Meanwhile, in reality, had the relationship actually continued, you might have discovered that he likes bikini photos of other women, makes you feel high-maintenance for asking him to wash up after you’ve cooked a three-course dinner, and is, in fact, an overall inconsiderate narcissist.
But you’ll never know that because he was removed from the cinema before the plot twist.
Instead, you’re left grieving a version of him that only ever existed in your imagination, a man with all of the potential and none of the evidence.
You might be able to tell I’m a woman scorned, but it’s also the sad reality of dating in 2026.
I thought splurging on self-help books, you know, the kind that tell you everything you already know but don’t want to admit to yourself, would help. If anything, they just kept reaffirming the idea that I was broken.
Every chapter seemed to hand me a new flaw to fix, every page a new habit to optimise, a new version of myself to frantically chase. Somewhere along the way, I stopped seeing myself as a person and started seeing myself as a project: a work in interminable progress.
The problem with that is I became so obsessed with self-improvement that I forgot the whole point of improving myself was to actually enjoy my life. I dissociated from the real one playing out in front of me, so consumed by becoming a better person that I forgot to actually live in the process.
Turns out you can spend so much time trying to become your "highest self" that you completely miss being your current self.
This is where limerence thrives. My self-esteem had quietly outsourced itself to one man, and when he left, my nervous system realised it was suddenly unemployed.
I had an emotional and physical reaction to his withdrawal from my life; my fragile immune system couldn’t fight the inflammation and cortisol spikes. My hair fell out, I had a full rosacea flare, and it destroyed whatever shred of confidence I was still trying to hold on to.
It felt as though I was a ship drifting in the ocean, and he was the anchor I was tethered to and grounded by. And when that tether snapped, I didn’t suddenly start exploring new land; I was desperately paddling back to what I thought was safe and secure.
Except it wasn’t safe and secure. It was just familiar. And my nervous system, unfortunately, does not know the difference.
I know you’re probably wishing I could tell you the secret to getting over this limerence stage, where you constantly wait for the outreach text and stalk his followers. If I had that secret, girl, I definitely wouldn’t gatekeep.
But the truth is, what really helps is exposure. By this, I mean if you’d told me a few situationships ago that I just needed to “love myself more,” I would’ve nodded politely, pretended to agree, and then immediately reverted to mentally decoding a “hey you up” text like it was The Da Vinci Code.
Because when you’re in it, him not texting back wholeheartedly feels like a minor emotional extinction event.
But I’ve realised going through those feelings has made me a lot more careful about who I give the power to do that to me. It’s made me more alert and more observant and taught me that respecting myself and my boundaries prevents the heartbreak that comes from treating red flags like suggested reading rather than urgent alerts.
Sometimes, having a slightly scientific approach can help. Acknowledge when you get the urge to send that text begging for the bare minimum of a closure chat; it’s just your nervous system having a little blip. We don’t need to beat ourselves up for it, but we also don’t need to treat it like a command. Just observe it, name it, and let it pass like a badly timed thought in a podcast you’re not really listening to.
I say all this as a girl who is, at present, still actively waiting for a text. But trust me, I used to completely shut down, and it would take me months to recover each time. I’ve felt a little stronger, detached a little quicker, and the truth is: growth doesn’t happen overnight, but progress does, even if it’s messy, slow, and occasionally involves checking your phone like it owes you emotional damages.
Maybe the hardest part wasn’t losing him; it was learning I made him up in the first place.