Memory of Limerence

I used to think memory was a kind of proof, something solid enough to hold up like a photograph and say, This is what happened. But memory is less like a photograph and more like a rumor you tell yourself until you believe it. Nothing taught me that faster than the night he and I both swear we remember, even though our versions don’t overlap in any meaningful way.

In my mind, that night was warm. Not temperature warm, but the kind of warm where someone looks at you and you feel seen instead of scanned. I remember leaning in. I remember laughing too loudly. I remember the spark, that tiny flicker of connection that feels like oxygen when you’ve been starving for it. I remember thinking, This is something. This is the start of something.

But when he tells the story, he remembers being tired. He remembers checking his phone. He remembers talking about work. He remembers leaving early because he had things to do in the morning. He remembers nothing changing.

And here’s the part that makes my stomach twist: I believe him. Not because he’s more honest or more reliable, but because I know exactly what limerence does to a brain like mine.

Limerence is a magician. It doesn’t just distort the present; it rewrites the past with the confidence of someone who thinks they’re improving the story. It takes a neutral moment and paints it gold. It takes a crumb and calls it a feast. It takes someone’s bare-minimum attention and turns it into a sign from the universe.

I didn’t just remember that night differently. I remembered a version of myself that didn’t exist. In my memory, I was charming, interesting, lit from within. In his memory, I was just there, present the way furniture is present—visible, functional, not remarkable.

And the worst part is that I can trace every red flag I erased. The way he kept glancing at the door like he was waiting for someone else to arrive. The way he didn’t ask me a single question that wasn’t surface-level. The way he talked like he was performing for an invisible audience. The way he never matched my energy, my curiosity, my effort. The way I convinced myself that his indifference was actually mystery.

My brain didn’t want the truth. It wanted the story. So it built one.

Months later, when we compared memories, I felt something inside me crack—not because he didn’t remember the night the way I did, but because I realized my version wasn’t a memory at all. It was a wish, a projection, a hallucination crafted from loneliness, hope, and the desperate desire to feel chosen by someone who never actually chose me.

And pulling myself out of that fog wasn’t a single moment of clarity. It was a slow, stubborn climb back into my own life.

I didn’t climb out of limerence gently. I clawed my way out. I stopped romanticizing crumbs. I stopped giving people credit for effort they never made. I stopped handing out forgiveness like it was a party favor. I started paying attention to who showed up and who didn’t. I started noticing who actually listened and who just waited for their turn to talk. I started valuing my time like it belonged to someone worth protecting. And once I did, that night lost its shine so fast it was almost embarrassing. It wasn’t magic. It wasn’t meaningful. It wasn’t anything. It was just another moment I tried too hard to make special.

Because limerence thrives in the places where you stop showing up for yourself.

The more I invested back into my own life, the more that memory shifted. The glow faded. The truth sharpened.

It wasn’t a magical night. It wasn’t a turning point. It wasn’t a sign. It was just Tuesday.

And the disagreement between our versions—the distance between what I felt and what actually happened—taught me more than getting the facts straight ever could. It taught me that memory isn’t a record. It’s a mirror. And sometimes, the reflection you see isn’t the person you were with; it’s the person you were trying desperately to be.

I don’t hate my version of the memory. I understand it. I even forgive it. But I don’t live in it anymore.

I live here, in the real world, where the meals are better, the makeup is mine, the kids are fed, and the only story I’m responsible for is the one I’m writing now, without illusions, without edits, without turning anyone into the sun.