Forty-seven minutes into our first meeting, he brushed his lips across the back of my hand and said, “I think I like you.” I dismissed it as a joke too flat to laugh at. The second date, when he held my gaze and quietly added, “I think I’m in love,” I blamed the wine and let the words dissolve. But it was already too late. My heart had detonated; my mind was saturated with a single word: love.
The Moment the Madness Began
If that wasn’t love, what was it?
He didn’t know me, yet I was close to deranged with the need to know him. I opened Instagram dozens of times a day, staring at his profile like a locked diary. A wineglass from three days ago, a car-crash scene from last week—why were his eyes so sorrowful? I craved to soothe that sorrow until my throat was raw. I never asked for his number. He only said, I’ll contact you, and I waited—one hour, five, twenty-eight. When I stepped out of the shower and turned my phone over, there was nothing. In hindsight, it was a waiting room for execution.
The Flaming Red Dress
Joo-hye fell for a man she’d met at a blind date a week earlier. Jung-woo the banker—neither handsome nor tall. But as he set down his wineglass, he murmured, “I’ve never liked someone this fast before.” That night she went home and ordered a red dress. A single heart from Jung-woo detonated her chest. From then on she went live on Instagram twelve times a day, checking if he was watching. Three days later, Jung-woo vanished. Joo-hye wore nothing but that red dress for the next seventy-six days. He’ll come back if I wear the red dress.
His Name Was Yoon-soo
Yoon-soo cried on our fifth date. A month earlier his girlfriend had left him. “I still can’t trust people,” he said. In that instant, I was seized by the delusion that I could heal his pain. From then on I was his private therapist. A 2 a.m. call? I went out. Drinks at eleven? I faked a company dinner. He asked nothing, yet I lived on the fantasy that he needed me. A month later, he was back in his ex’s bed. Even after I knew, I still picked up. At 3 a.m., when he whispered, “I’m sorry,” relief flooded me. He’s apologizing—to me. A moment mortifying enough to die from.
Why Do Those Words Drive Us Mad?
Once the word love blinds us, anyone can become a cesspit.
Psychologists label it “rapid intimacy illusion,” but that sounds antiseptic. The real reason we unravel is the violence of the word itself. A confession of love is an instantaneous occupation of another’s heart. The moment we hear it, we hallucinate that we are special. More often it is a careless line, or mere autosuggestion. Still, we gamble our lives on that throwaway line, because without it we must face the terrifying truth that no one wants us at all.
Still Wanting to Believe, You
Whoever is reading this, you may be replaying someone’s “I love you” tonight. Even if the messages have stopped, you fall asleep clutching that sentence. You’ll probably insist we were different. We were special. But wait—when he said he loved you after two dates, what did you answer? Likely, me too. In that instant you were already sinking, and he was already leaving. Are you still waiting? Or have you realized that we were all mad?