Most people in limerence can recall the exact moment it hit. A smile across the room. A laugh that lingered too long. A text that shouldn’t have felt like anything but somehow felt like everything.

That’s Stage One.

We like to believe affairs are plotted, deliberate things. But limerence doesn’t ask for planning. It sneaks in through the cracks. Through mild discontent. A low-grade loneliness. A sense that something—anything—needs to change. Then someone new offers attention, and the world tilts. Not because that person is extraordinary. But because the feeling is.

It’s the question that arrives long after the discovery, after the gut punch, after the tears and the text message sleuthing: What did they actually feel for them? Was it love? Was it lust? Was it something else entirely?

Here’s the strange thing about affairs: even the people having them often don’t know why they’re doing it. They talk in circles—about stress, or boredom, or how they hadn’t felt “seen” in years—but push a little deeper and you find something slipperier than desire or dissatisfaction. You find confusion. Maybe even delusion.

Which brings us to a word that sounds like a brand of luxury perfume but isn’t: limerence.