Love on the Brain

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a community of women trying to mind their own business must be in want of a random man’s opinion.

You don't even have to admit to yourself that you love me, Bee. God knows I love you enough for the both of us - Levi Ward

I know what she smells like. This little freckle on her neck when she pulls up her hair. Her upper lip is a little plumper than the lower. The curve of her wrist, when she holds a pen. It’s wrong, really wrong, but I know the shape of her. I go to sleep thinking about it, and then I wake up, go to work, and she is there, and it’s impossible. I tell her stuff I know she’ll agree to, just to hear her hum back at me. It’s like hot water down my fucking spine. She’s married. She’s brilliant. She trusts me, and all I think about is taking her to my office, stripping her, doing unspeakable things to her. And I want to tell her. I want to tell her that she’s luminous, she’s so bright in my mind, sometimes I can’t focus. Sometimes I forget why I came into the room. I’m distracted. I want to push her against a wall, and I want her to push back. I want to go back in time and punch her stupid husband on the day I met him and then travel back to the future and punch him again. I want to buy her flowers, food, books. I want to hold her hand, and I want to lock her in my bedroom. She’s everything I ever wanted and I want to inject her into my veins and also to never see her again. There’s nothing like her and these feelings, they are fucking intolerable. They were half-asleep while she was gone, but now she’s here and my body thinks it’s a fucking teenager and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. There is nothing I can do, so I’ll just . . . not.

You were always in my head. And I could never get you out.

if academia ever makes you feel like you’re not good or smart enough . . . it’s not you, it’s academia.

I want to tell her that she's luminous, she's so bright in my mind, sometimes I can't focus.

The real villain is love: an unstable isotope, constantly undergoing spontaneous nuclear decay. And it will forever go unpunished.

I can give you nice. I can give you better than nice. I can give you everything.” He smiles at me, full of hope. “You don’t even have to admit to yourself that you love me, Bee. God knows I love you enough for the both of us. But I need you to stay. I need you to stick around. Not in Houston, if you don’t want to. I’ll follow you, if you ask me to.

I love you, I think, and you are my home.

If there is one thing men hate more than a smart woman, it’s a smart woman who makes her own choices when it comes to her own sex life.

I take a deep breath, still staring out the window. “I really, really, really like you.” He doesn’t reply for a long moment. Then: “I’m pretty sure I like you more.” “I doubt it. I just want you to know, not everyone is like your family. You can be . . . you can be you with me. You can talk, say, do however you want. And I’ll never hurt you like they did.” I make myself smile at him. It’s easy now. “I promise I don’t bite.” He reaches over to take my hand, his skin warm and rough against mine. He smiles back. Just a little. “You could rip me to shreds, Bee.

She’s so mean. I love her.

Annie used to have a funny theory: we all have a Year Zero around which the calendars of our lives pivot. At some point you meet someone, and they become so important, so metamorphic, that ten, twenty, sixty-five years down the line you look back and realize that you could split your existence in two. Before they showed (BCE), and your Common Era. Your very own Gregorian calendar.

We're only humans. We're full of ''whys'', drowning in ''whys.'' Every once in a while, we need a bit of ''because,'' and if it's not readily available, we make it up.

Thank you, Oh Penised Overlords, for the recognition I deserve

This is the equivalent to someone buying their own ‘World’s Best Boss’ mug. Congratulations, you’re officially NASA’s Micheal Scott

Science is reliable in its variability. Science does whatever the fuck it wants. God, I love science.

But before I can say anything, he cups my cheek and leans down to kiss me once more. This time it’s sweet, slow, savoring. Patient. This time it’s lingering and gentle—everything our other kiss wasn’t. I want to try them all. All the kisses Levi Ward is capable of, I want to sample them like fine wine.

Don’t be. Life is pain and then you die.

There hasn’t been anyone else.” His jaw tenses and works. “Since the first moment I saw you. Since the first moment I talked to you and made an ass of myself, there hasn’t been anyone else.

I will slay a murder of dragons for you.” “I looked it up,” Levi says from the doorjamb. “It’s a thunder of dragons.

Levi cups my face, forehead touching mine. His hands—they are my home. “Bee. Don’t take this from us,” he murmurs. Ragged. Careful. Hopeful. “Please.” I’ve never wanted anything more than to say yes. I’ve never wished to reach for something as I do now. And I’ve never been so utterly, petrifyingly scared to lose something.

The point is, sometimes dislike is a gut reaction. Like falling in love at first sight, you know? Just . . . the opposite.

Your therapist sounds great.” “He was.” “But i still want to commit patricide.

Oh, Levi, Levi. I can be fearless. I can be as fearless and honest as you are. If you will teach me.

Science, I tell myself in my inner Jeff Goldblum voice, finds a way.

I stare at him. And stare at him. And stare a little more, open-mouthed. I stare at this man who is six four and two hundred pounds of muscle and just vented to me for five minutes about the fact that space is a scary place. God. Oh, God. I think I like him.

Why does Tim look terrified?” He gives me an innocent look. “He does?” “Levi. What did you say to him?

But as much as he dislikes you, it’s hard to believe that he’s sabotaging you. That level of hatred requires so much effort and motivation and commitment, it’s basically love.

Loneliness is here. It molds our souls, but also our bodies. Right inferior temporal gyri, posterior cingulates, temporoparietal junctions, retrosplenial cortices, dorsal raphe. Lonely people’s brains are shaped differently. And I just want mine to . . . not be. I want a healthy, plump, symmetrical cerebrum. I want it to work diligently, impeccably, like the extraordinary machine it’s supposed to be. I want it to do as it’s told.