“That’s…actually sort of beautiful,” she says.
“Science usually is.”
She shakes her head, a genuine, warm smile breaking through. “You are such a nerd, Leo.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“Okay but here’s my question.” She leans forward slightly, her eyes bright. “You can’t measure love, not really. You can measure the chemicals, sure—dopamine, oxytocin, whatever—but not the actual feeling. So by your logic, does it exist?”
I take a sip of wine, considering. “Love exists in the same way pain exists. I can measure the neurological responses—the activation of certain brain regions, the release of specific neurotransmitters. I can observe the behavioral changes. Butthe subjective experience? The qualia of it? That’s harder to pin down.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is an answer. Just not the one you want.”
She narrows her eyes, looking at me over the rim of her glass. “You’re dodging. You’re being a coward.”
I let out a short, surprised bark of a laugh. “A coward?”
“Yes,” she says, her voice gaining heat. “You’re hiding behind science because the real answer is too messy for you. It’s uncomfortable.”
“And what is the ‘real’ answer, according to the Gospel of Annie?”
“That love is real even if you can’t trap it in a petri dish. That it exists independent of your brain chemistry. That it’s…something more.”
I lean my head back against the sofa, studying her. “Define ‘more.’”
“I don’t know. Choice, maybe. Commitment. The decision to keep showing up even when the chemicals wear off.”
“That’s behavioral. I can measure that.”
“But can you measurewhysomeone makes that choice when it’s the hardest thing in the world to do?”
I pause. The academic in me wants to cite evolutionary altruism, but looking at her, the words feel thin. “Not precisely, no.”
“Then there it is.” She looks triumphant, like she’s just cracked the code. “Love exists in the gaps. In the spaces in between. It’s the stuff you can’t measure.”
I stay quiet for a moment, then add, “You could argue that about anything, though. Free will. Consciousness. Just because we don’t have the instruments yet doesn’t mean it’s not just physical processes at work.”
“Or,” she counters, “just because something comes from physical processes doesn’t mean that’sallit is. Music is just sound waves, but that doesn’t make Beethoven’s Ninth any less beautiful. Paintings are just pigment and canvas, but that doesn’t make Van Gogh’s art meaningless.”
“Fair point.”
“So why can’t love be the same thing? Yes, it’s chemicals and neurons and evolutionary biology. But it’s also more than that. It’s the meaning we make from it.”
I look at her. “You’re more of a romantic than I thought.”
“Maybe.” She shrugs. “Or maybe I just think love is worth defending.”
“Why?”
“Why do you think it’s such a tragedy?”
The question catches me off guard. I stall, taking another sip of the wine. “I don’t think it’s a tragedy.”
“Yes, you do. I can hear it every time you talk about it. You talk like it’s a specimen. Something to be dissected and explained away so it can’t hurt you.”
She’s not wrong.
