A Theoretical Love

Modern love feels dirty to me.
Not dirty in a sexual way. Dirty in a sick psychological state.

Sticky. Wet. Overexposed. Delulu, if I am being more honest.

People today do not fall in love. They smear themselves onto each other. They exchange saliva, trauma, late night confessions, half healed wounds, and call it intimacy. They snog their way into emotional entanglement, cry together too early, sleep together too often, bleed together before either knows how to stand alone.

They confuse closeness with collapse. Mentally, emotionally, and nowadays even financially. The term sugar baby was created by my generation, alongside body positivity. I am Gen Z, in case it still was not obvious from the audacity and the lack of mercy in my words.

So when two unstable people meet, instead of stabilizing themselves, they synchronize the instability. They become each other’s coping mechanism. They stay awake together at three in the morning, kissing, smoking, fucking, confessing, promising, breaking, repairing, and then romanticize this cycle as real love.

From the outside, it looks intense.
From the inside, it is mutual erosion.

This is the kind of love people defend to me. They say it is human. They say it is passion. They say this is how love works.

And every time, I think the same thing.
If this is love, why does it rot so fast.

I also believe people consume it too quickly, just until they are partially healed by the current love, then move on to the next one. Depending on how well the wound shape matches the shape of the ass. Or the boobs. Either works.

My way of approaching love does not make sense to them. They call it cold. Odd. Overthought. Mechanical. They say love should not have logic. That it should not be measured or observed.

But from my side, their way makes even less sense. It is no different than a pig rolling in its own shit to cool down because it lacks functional sweat glands. Prove me wrong. People always fall in love exactly when their emotional regulation is not working.

What I genuinely wonder is how someone can fall in love with multiple people throughout their lifetime. How can you fall in love with every new person you are with this month. I really want to ask this without being misunderstood, because I am honestly fascinated by how the human brain manages that. I do not have that skill. Maybe it is my ADHD. Maybe my father raised me too robotic.

Your neurotypical brains never fail to fascinate me in how simple they are.

Because what you call love looks like two people drowning and holding onto each other so they do not have to swim.

This is where my theory begins. Not as decoration, but as explanation.

I do not see people as emotional stories when I need to decide whether to accept them in my life and that's a hard decision to make. So I created a way where I see them as systems.

A human being is an energy system with internal structure. Habits. Values. Self regulation. Identity. Limits. When two people meet, two systems come into proximity. At first, nothing is measured. Everything feels possible. This is what people romanticize as the honeymoon phase.

But in physics, when a system has not been measured yet, it does not mean it is perfect. It means its state is unknown.

This is where Schrödinger actually matters to me. Not as a metaphor people quote to sound clever, but as a model that explains exactly what early love is.

Schrödinger was not romantic. He was cruelly honest. His thought experiment was meant to show how absurd it is to pretend that a system has a defined state before it is observed. The cat is not mysteriously alive and dead in a poetic sense. Until pressure is applied, until observation forces reality to reveal itself, the system remains unresolved.

Early love works exactly like this.

In the beginning, people are not who they are. They are who they can afford to be. They exist in multiple states at once because nothing has yet demanded a choice. Someone can appear generous because nothing has been taken from them. They can appear emotionally available because nothing has tested their limits. They can appear stable because life has not asked them to adapt.

This is why the beginning feels magical to people. Not because it is special, but because it is undefined.

Most people misunderstand this uncertainty. They interpret possibility as truth. They believe potential is character. And because uncertainty makes them anxious, they rush to collapse the system as fast as possible. They accelerate intimacy, share too much too early, confuse access with closeness, and then call the result fate.

I do not rush that collapse. Usually, I give what I call a six month experiment of love, a timeline where alter egos flirt with power without being crowned yet.

My method is not love itself.
It is the doorway that protects it.

Not because I am distant in relationships, and not because I am afraid to show vulnerability, but because collapse without pressure tells you nothing about the other person. I want to see who I am dealing with before opening the road into my deepest consciousness. A system that has not been stressed has not been measured. Without measurement, you are not seeing reality. You are seeing projection.

This is where Heisenberg enters the picture in a way most people never apply to human relationships.

Heisenberg showed that observation itself changes a system. The more precisely you try to measure something, the more you disturb it. Translated into human terms, intimacy increases pressure. The closer two lives come together, the more resolution increases, and the more strain is placed on identity.

Anyone can look stable when nothing is required of them. That is not a flaw. That is physics.

Stability only becomes visible when a system is forced to respond to change.

This is why time alone is meaningless. The six month experiment is not magic. It is simply the period in which life usually introduces enough friction for the system to reveal itself. Plans shift. Expectations collide. Control slips. Uncertainty rises. And suddenly, the person you thought you knew must reorganize themselves or fail.

This is the psychological game people play without realizing it.

Some people adapt. Their sense of self holds even as intimacy deepens. They do not panic when control disappears. They do not distort reality to preserve comfort. Their identity remains coherent under pressure.

Others do not.

Some tighten. They try to manage the relationship instead of participating in it. They regulate through jealousy, reassurance seeking, emotional manipulation, or dominance. Not because they are malicious, but because their internal structure cannot tolerate uncertainty.

This is where modern love begins to rot.

People confuse these reactions with passion. They romanticize anxiety. They mistake emotional volatility for depth. They stay because leaving would require standing alone with themselves. And they call this endurance.

From my perspective, this is not love. It is an unstable system trying to outsource its regulation.

I am not interested in watching two people slowly collapse into each other and calling it intimacy. I am interested in whether two systems can increase proximity without losing integrity. Whether identity survives closeness. Whether presence remains honest when fantasy dissolves.

That is why I observe.
Not to judge. Not to dominate.
But to understand whether coherence exists beneath attraction. Whether adaptation is possible without control. Whether pressure produces growth or decay.

There is also a psychological layer that is often misunderstood. People who are at peace with themselves do not look for love to complete them. Not because they are emotionally closed, but because their sense of self does not depend on external validation. When a person genuinely respects themselves, love becomes a choice rather than a necessity. They are less reactive, less desperate for fusion, more observant of their own equilibrium.

Again, this has nothing to do with being cold or avoidant. It has everything to do with self respect. I have seen people with wildly different characters arrive at the same place once they stopped needing love to fill a void. They become more selective. Less impressed by intensity. Not because they fear loss, but because they value long term stability over a quick snort of love from a dirty nightclub bathroom. I prefer both, personally. But love, for them, is not something to cling to. It is something to integrate carefully into a life that already stands on its own.

This perspective can also be read through a nihilist lens. If nothing is guaranteed, if meaning is not inherent, if permanence is an illusion, then attachment loses its false urgency. Nothing is promised. Nothing is owed. Nothing is certain.

And yet, I am not a nihilist. I am a vitalist. I do not believe love is meaningless just because it is fragile and unknown. I believe it is meaningful because it is fragile. I do not deny uncertainty. I accept it and still choose engagement, on my own terms, to keep my perfectionist instincts in check. Love is not sacred because it lasts forever. It is sacred because it is entered consciously, without illusion, without desperation, without self erasure. Not as a reaction to emptiness, but as an extension of vitality.

That is the only kind of love that has ever made sense to me.

And don’t get me wrong. I am not a hypocrite, and I am not pretending to be above desire. I like it raw enough to wake me up. Warm kisses on my neck at three in the morning, the kind that are not asking, just deciding. Fingers tracing thoughts before they trace skin. Words whispered with intent. A smart words with stupid actions. Shared glances that carry more meaning than a sentence. Silence charged enough to feel dangerous. The kind of closeness that feels like standing too near a flame and choosing not to step back.

But only when I feel safe.

Safety is not the enemy of passion. It is the frame that keeps it from turning reckless. Emotional security and psychological steadiness are what allow desire to stay sharp instead of desperate. Without safety, intimacy becomes impulsive, attraction becomes compulsive, and love starts feeding on anxiety instead of depth.

I am not interested in chaos masquerading as chemistry. I want heat that knows where it belongs.

And when the right system enters the field, all my theory becomes unnecessary. There is no box to open because nothing is hidden. There is no collapse because stability is already present. Observation no longer threatens identity. Intimacy does not distort reality. It clarifies it.

Until then, I remain patient.
Until then, I will refuse to drown in unknown waters and baptize it as love.
Unless I meet a person whose ocean I would enter the moment our eyes meet, knowingly, willingly, when the water recognizes me back.

Until then, sayonara.