“I miss you, too. Hope you’re doing well in New York.”
I scrunched my nose. That felt too curt.
“I miss you, too, and I dream of you often. Maybe we’ll meet in our dreams one of these days.”
At least I wasn’t asking him to come see me for the hundredth time. That felt like progress.
I checked for typos and pressed send, forcing myself not to agonize over my words. Would he notice something was off?
And if he did, would he even care?
* * *
Class started late.By the time the professor got to the blackboard, I’d managed to fill half a page in my notebook with flowery doodles.
He apologized for his tardiness and jumped right into the lecture. “Today we’ll be talking about love and addiction. I bet most of you wouldn’t naturally associate the two together, but Peele and Brodsky’s seminal work of the same title lays out a compelling argument for why so many behaviors we observe in addiction can also be found in romantic love.”
My ears perked up.
“Let’s list a few of these. There’s the obsession with qualities, behaviors, and traits of the object of our infatuation. When they’re not around, we crave them. Who hasn’t done something crazy or brash in an attempt to see their crush?”
A few people laughed. My thoughts jumped to the insane schemes I’d come up with to go see Oliver in New York.
The professor smiled. “Who hasn’t felt mortifying panic and anxiety when the object of your infatuation seems withdrawn? Who hasn’t lain in bed, crying and unable to move in the wake of a breakup?”
The laughter died down. I was right there with them. The week I got home from the tour, I barely left my room. If I lost track of my phone, I’d go into a full-blown panic attack, fearing I’d miss a message from Oliver.
“And of course, all of these negative emotions are often eliminated as soon as we’re back in our beloved’s arms.”
The edge of the desk dug into my ribs as I leaned forward.
“All of the above statements ring true about love as much as they do about substance addiction. To quote Peele and Brodsky, ‘Love is an ideal vehicle for addiction because it can so exclusively claim a person’s consciousness.’ Love can fill a void. It can offer us solace, and it can quickly become the center of our life, much like a chemical substance.”
My heart pumped a rapid rhythm as little puzzle pieces joined inside my head. Is that what I was? Was I…addicted to Oliver?
Someone raised their hand. “So are you saying love is bad?”
“No, I’m saying that just like some people can use drugs with integrity, while others become addicted, the same is true of love. We can love in ways that are positive and enrich our lives, or we can love in ways that are harmful and decrease our self-contentment.”
My pen fell out of my hand with a loud clack. The professor looked at me for a brief moment before continuing the lecture, but I was no longer listening. His words swam inside my brain like toxic waste, polluting every thought.
In that exact moment, my phone buzzed three times.
My pulse began to race as I reached for it on autopilot. The realization made me feel nauseous—when had I become this…conditioned? Those three buzzes set off an avalanche of emotions inside of me before I even knew what the message said. Is this what addicts felt when they were about to get their fix?
I didn’t want to read his message, but I couldn’t resist its pull. My fingers tapped in the passcode.
“I’m tired of dreams. I want the real deal.”
A few students turned to look at me as I shot out of my seat, grabbed my stuff, and headed out the door. I felt dizzy.
“You’re going to come? When?”
When had I become this pathetic? I knew he wouldn’t come. He’d sent messages like this before and they’d never resulted in anything, so why was I still deluding myself?
I ran out the building and let out a strangled breath. The phone was heavy in my hand as I stared at the screen. He wouldn’t respond. He had a tendency to ignore blunt, to-the-point messages like the one I’d just sent.
The sun was shining with ferocity. It was another scorching day, and I walked to the campus cafe in a trance, rereading his last message over and over again. Tears blurred my vision for the second time in the last twenty-four hours.
