I called it chemistry—
sparks, late texts, dopamine hits,
but really it was chaos
wearing cologne and bad intentions.
It wasn’t fate.
It was inconsistency flirting with my trauma,
breadcrumbs dressed up as passion,
and me romanticizing the bare minimum
like it was a personality trait.
He didn’t challenge me—
he destabilized me.
Didn’t make my heart race—
just kept me anxious,
refreshing my phone like it owed me rent.
I mistook butterflies for warning signs,
confused adrenaline with attraction,
called emotional whiplash “depth,”
and labeled silence as mystery.
Because chaos is loud.
It feels like fireworks.
It feels like something.
And when you’ve been bored, lonely,
or healing out loud in a world obsessed with soft-launching pain,
anything intense feels real.
But chemistry doesn’t make you question your worth
at 2:37 a.m.
Chaos does.
Chemistry doesn’t disappear
then reappear with a “you good?” text
like nothing cracked open.
Chaos does—
and somehow convinces you
that you’re dramatic for bleeding.
I stayed because the highs were cinematic—
TikTok-worthy, main-character coded.
I left because the lows
felt like self-betrayal in 4K.
Let’s be honest—
we’ve all dated a red flag
because it matched the outfit.
But peace?
Peace doesn’t scream.
It doesn’t keep you guessing.
It doesn’t ghost, gaslight, or gatekeep affection.
Peace is consistent.
Predictable.
Maybe even a little boring—
until you realize
boring is just safety
after years of survival mode.
In true Carrie Bradshaw fashion,
I couldn’t help but wonder—
what if chemistry was never about sparks…
but about calm?
What if the real love story
is choosing emotional stability
over chaos that feels familiar?
Turns out,
the strongest connection I’ve ever had
wasn’t with him—
it was with myself
the moment I stopped confusing chaos for chemistry.
And darling—
that realization?
That was electric.
