Last winter, I tried to quit.
So I did. I over-texted. I showed up at his work with his favorite sandwich. I laughed too loud at his half-hearted jokes. And when he finally looked at me again — really looked — the relief was so sharp it hurt.
His name was Eli, and he had hands that knew how to hold things carefully: a coffee cup, a cigarette, my waist. The first night he kissed me, it felt like coming home to a place I'd never been. I told myself that's what love was supposed to feel like. The rush. The weightlessness. The way the world went soft-focus around him. love junkie free read
For three months, I floated.
Love junkies don't shoot up in alleys. We do it in candlelit bedrooms and coffee shop corners. We do it with poetry and promises and the way we tilt our heads when someone says I'm not ready for a relationship . We nod and say that's okay while inside we're already calculating how to make them ready. Last winter, I tried to quit
After Eli, there was Marcus, who loved me for six perfect weeks before he loved his ex more. Then Jules, who said I was "intense" and stopped calling. Then the girl whose name I won't even write down, because admitting I still remember it feels like shame.
Real love — the kind I'm still not sure I believe in — probably feels boring sometimes. Safe. It probably doesn't make you check your phone every three minutes. It probably doesn't require you to perform, to shrink, to beg. I showed up at his work with his favorite sandwich
But I put down the needle today. And tomorrow, I'll try to do it again. If this resonated, search your favorite ebook retailer for "Love Junkie: A Memoir of Wanting" (fictional title — but real books with this theme exist!). Or look for authors like Caroline Kepnes , Megan Nolan , or Chloe Caldwell for similar raw, addictive love stories.