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.
Limerence isn’t love, not exactly. It’s not just attraction either. It’s more like an emotional hijacking—a cocktail of obsessive thinking, dopamine, fantasy, and the terrifying certainty that this person holds the key to everything you’re missing. It’s intoxicating. It’s irrational. And it can turn otherwise responsible adults into people who throw their lives, their marriages, and sometimes their careers onto a bonfire with a kind of giddy sincerity.
Not every affair is driven by limerence. Some are calculated, others are circumstantial. But when limerence is in play, what you’re dealing with isn’t just infidelity—it’s chemical warfare inside the brain.
So what was your partner thinking? They might not know either. But we’re about to find out what limerence really does to a person—and what it doesn’t mean about their love for you.
What Is Limerence?
Limerence is what happens when the brain takes a vacation from reality—and doesn’t leave a forwarding address.
At first glance, it looks like love. It talks like love. It writes long text messages like love. But limerence is something else entirely. It’s not a slow burn of commitment or even a deep infatuation. It’s a kind of emotional seizure—a chemical loop where one person becomes the sun, moon, and moral compass of another’s existence, regardless of how irrational, inconvenient, or catastrophic that obsession becomes.
You might remember the feeling from high school. The way a single glance from someone in math class could make your stomach drop like a roller coaster. Now imagine that same feeling—amplified, unfiltered, and dropped into the life of a married adult with bills, kids, and a mortgage. That’s limerence on adult mode. And it doesn’t care what it destroys on its way through.
People caught in limerence don’t just like the affair partner. They orbit around them. Their brain fires like it’s found oxygen after years underwater. Every text becomes a hit. Every stolen moment, a kind of sacred proof. They convince themselves: This is destiny. This is real. And maybe most dangerously: This is worth everything.
It’s not that they stop loving their spouse. It’s that reality loses its footing. Consequences blur. Spouses become background noise. Children become context. The affair partner becomes the headline.
In short, limerence doesn’t ask for permission. It rewrites the story—and leaves scorched earth behind.
Limerence vs. Real Love
Here’s where things get messy.
Limerence walks into a relationship like it’s the main character. It’s thrilling, cinematic, full of declarations that sound like the closing scene of a love story. But then—quietly, inevitably—it dies. Not with a bang, but with a slow leak. The texts become shorter. The heart doesn’t race when the phone buzzes. The world doesn’t feel quite so magic anymore.
Why? Because limerence is chemically unsustainable. It runs on secrecy, scarcity, and fantasy—three things that real life eventually strips away. You move from hotel rooms to grocery runs, and suddenly your “soulmate” has morning breath and unpaid parking tickets. The dopamine drops. The clarity returns. And now you’re not in a sweeping romance. You’re in a problem of your own making.
Research suggests: limerence lasts somewhere between three months and two years. It burns hot, then burns out. And when it does, the person who detonated their life often looks around and thinks: What did I just do?
But in the middle of it? That’s a different story. In the middle of limerence, people believe they’ve found THE ONE—fate, the whole bit. They think they’re seeing clearly for the first time. What they’re actually experiencing is a neurochemical joyride with no airbags.
What This Means for the Betrayed Partner
If you’ve been betrayed, you’ve likely asked the question: Did they love them? The short answer? Maybe. The longer, truer answer? Not in the way that lasts.
Limerence feels like love from the inside—but it’s built on illusion, not intimacy. It’s not shared bills and sick kids and choosing each other after a brutal week. It’s fantasy. Escapism. And at its worst, a psychological hall of mirrors where everything feels urgent, electric, and just out of reach.
This doesn’t mean the pain of betrayal goes away when you name it. But it does mean this: most affairs aren’t a love story. They’re a chemical story. And once the rush fades, what’s left is usually regret, wreckage—and if you’re lucky, a chance to rebuild something real.
But that part? The rebuilding? That only happens with honesty, support, and a whole lot of uncomfortable truth.
Limerence in an affair can show up in different ways, but these are the two most common forms it takes.
The Limerent Affair
This is the affair that feels like a plot twist in someone else’s romance novel—only everyone involved is real, and no one’s getting a happy ending. Not yet, anyway.
The limerent affair doesn’t start with fireworks. It starts quietly. A friendship. A connection. A few boundary crossing conversations that feel innocent until they aren’t. The betrayer doesn't set out to burn down their life. But at some point—weeks, maybe months in—they start telling themselves a different story: I’ve found my soulmate. My marriage was dead anyway. This is the real thing.
And then? All bets are off.
These affairs aren’t always about sex. In fact, they’re often about something harder to walk away from: emotional intoxication. A sense of being understood, seen, awakened. It’s not just romance—it’s relief. From the numbness. From the routine. From the self they no longer recognized in the mirror.
But here’s where the narrative fractures.
The person in the affair becomes stuck in a loop—a psychological tug-of-war between guilt and euphoria. One minute they’re leaving their spouse, convinced happiness lies with the affair partner. The next, they’re standing in the kitchen at home, haunted by the sound of their child’s voice, wondering if they’ve made the biggest mistake of their life.
So they boomerang. They leave. They come back. They cry. They confess. They retreat. Each move feels decisive until it isn’t. What they’re chasing isn’t the affair partner—it’s a feeling. And feelings, as it turns out, don’t make great compasses.
To everyone around them, this looks like selfishness. Indecision. Cowardice. And maybe it is. But it’s also a crisis of identity. The person caught in a limerent affair isn’t just torn between two people—they’re torn between two versions of themselves. The loyal partner and the liberated lover. The parent and the passion-seeker. The wreckage and the rewrite.
They say they want out of the marriage. But what they really want is a way out of the consequences. And there isn’t one.
Which is why this cycle—run, return, regret, repeat—can stretch on for years. And leave a trail of heartbreak long enough to circle the globe.
The “I Want to Be in Love” Affair
Not all affairs are about a person. Some are about a feeling. The rush. The spark. The cinematic music swelling in the background of a conversation that feels like fate.
This is the “I Want to Be in Love” affair—and it's less about who, and more about how it feels. What drives it isn't a soulmate so much as a hit of emotional adrenaline of limerence. Others call it love addiction. Either way, the pattern is the same: fall hard, fast, and frequently.
People in this kind of affair aren’t just looking to escape their marriage. They’re chasing magic. The kind they think they’ve seen in movies, or maybe once felt in the first weeks of dating someone new. But when life starts acting like life—messy, boring, imperfect—they take it as a sign. This must not be the one.
So they keep looking.
Every new relationship feels like this is it. Until it isn’t. The flaws start showing. The fantasy cracks. Disappointment sneaks in, and suddenly, they’re wondering if they’ve made another mistake. But instead of staying to work through it, they go back to what they know best: the thrill of starting over.
This is the romantic version of musical chairs—except no one ever sits down. The problem isn’t their partner. It’s the story they keep telling themselves: that perfect love exists, and it always feels amazing.
But real love? It’s not a constant high. It’s showing up when it’s hard. It’s repair after rupture. It’s choosing someone after the dopamine fades.
And that’s the one thing the “I Want to Be in Love” person never learned how to do: stay.
So they move from one heart to the next, leaving a trail of people who weren’t perfect enough, fast enough. Meanwhile, the thing they’re searching for—depth, intimacy, peace—only happens when you stop running.
Understanding These Affairs
Zoom out far enough, and both of these affairs—the limerent kind and the “in love with being in love” kind—start to look less like romantic rebellions and more like psychological defaults. They aren’t just moral failings or lapses in judgment. They’re attempts to solve a deeper emotional equation: How do I feel alive again?
The limerent affair ties that answer to a person. A single, shining figure who seems to offer escape, electricity, and rebirth all at once. The “I want to be in love” affair ties it to a sensation. The first-date butterflies. The high of new attention. The comfort of fantasy before reality has a chance to speak.
Neither is sustainable. And neither is really about the betrayed spouse.
That’s the painful twist.
When someone cheats in these ways, it doesn’t necessarily mean they never loved you. It often means they got swept into a story so emotionally charged, they forgot what was real. They mistook intensity for intimacy. They confused escape with evolution. They chased relief instead of resolution.
Understanding that won’t undo the betrayal. It won’t unbreak your heart. But it does offer something else—something crucial: perspective.
Because the affair wasn’t always about you. And the healing? That part can be.
Knowing why the betrayal happened isn’t the same as excusing it. It’s the first brick in rebuilding something better—whether that’s trust, clarity, or a life that makes sense again.
The Illusion of Love: Understanding Love Addiction and Limerence
At first glance, it looks like love. All the classic signs are there: racing heart, obsessive thoughts, the irresistible draw of someone who feels like a missing puzzle piece. But take a closer look—under the microscope of emotional reality—and what you often find isn’t love. It’s addiction. Not to the person, but to the feeling.
This is the illusion that fuels so many affairs: the belief that falling in love is love. That the spark equals depth. That chemistry equals destiny. But what’s actually happening is a neurochemical trap—a cycle of craving, reward, withdrawal, and repeat. And it doesn’t end with a fairytale kiss. It ends in disillusionment, confusion, and usually, collateral damage.
Take Sarah, for example—not her real name, but a story that echoes through the lives of so many clients I’ve seen.
She wasn’t unhappy in a loud, obvious way. She and her husband had a routine: work, dinner, kids, Netflix. Life was steady—maybe too steady. Then came someone new. A coworker. A friend of a friend. Someone who laughed at her jokes, listened like every word mattered, and saw her as more than just a tired mom balancing a to-do list.
At first, it was nothing. A spark. A flutter. But it grew. The texts got longer. The eye contact lingered. Before she knew it, she wasn’t just talking to him—she was thinking about him constantly. Her mood depended on whether he replied. Her self-worth began orbiting his attention. She told herself it was love. Real love. The kind she hadn’t felt in years.
But when the affair finally imploded—and it always does—what followed wasn’t clarity. It was chaos. Sleepless nights. Emotional withdrawal. A deep ache that felt less like heartbreak and more like detox. That’s when she realized: it wasn’t him she missed. It was the feeling—the high of being wanted, pursued, alive again.
And this is what love addiction does. It convinces smart, grounded people that the chemical rush of infatuation is the real thing. It disguises itself as destiny, then disappears the moment reality walks in.
Sarah didn’t need a soulmate. She needed to come back to herself.
When the unfaithful partner is a love addict.
Some people who fall into limerence are what you might call a, “Love Addict.” The love addict isn’t addicted to people. They’re addicted to possibility. The fantasy. The idea that somewhere out there is someone who will finally make everything feel right. They’re not falling in love with a partner—they’re falling in love with the way that partner reflects a story they want to believe: I am wanted. I am alive. I am new again. The love addict likely has an anxious attachment style and is looking for someone to rescue them.
The affair partner isn’t special so much as they are convenient—perfectly placed to trigger the high. From there, it’s off to the races: texts that feel electric, encounters that feel fated, vows to rewrite life from scratch. But once reality shows up—and it always does—the thrill fades. And the hunt begins again.
This pattern doesn’t discriminate. It affects men and women, though it often surfaces more visibly in women due to how they’re socialized to prioritize connection and romance. But the behavior tells the story:
They waver about their marriage but never fully walk away.
They idealize the affair partner—seeing them not as they are, but as they need them to be.
They ignore red flags. Rewrite history. Cling to crumbs of attention as if they’re proof of fate.
Sometimes, they aren’t even in a real relationship. The person they obsess over may barely know they exist. But in their mind, it’s a love story in progress.
This is the raw material of love addiction: not a relationship, but a projection. Not intimacy, but illusion. The person becomes a screen onto which every unmet emotional need is cast in technicolor. And for a while, that illusion feels better than anything reality can offer.
But the high doesn’t last. It never does. Because real love—actual, durable, unsexy-on-some-days love—isn’t about the rush. It’s about the work. And for the love addict, that’s the part they’ve never learned how to stay for.
Limerence and Intrusive Thinking
There’s a moment, usually quiet and private, when the person caught in an affair realizes they can’t stop thinking about the other person. They’re not choosing to. It’s just... happening. The images, the conversations, the possibilities—they loop, involuntarily, like a Spotify playlist they never pressed play on. Welcome to the mental operating system of limerence.
Limerence is not just a crush. It’s a psychological event. An involuntary, obsessive fixation that hijacks attention, distorts perception, and rewires decision-making. It’s the emotional equivalent of being hacked.
And like any addiction, it creates an illusion of control—right up until that control is gone.
This is where the phenomenon of intrusive thinking enters the scene. The betrayed partner may assume the affair is a choice—a betrayal measured in cold, calculated steps. But inside the mind of the betrayer, something else is happening. Thoughts of the affair partner aren’t just frequent; they’re relentless. They show up uninvited, pinging like mental notifications every few minutes. Even when the person wants to let go, their brain keeps dragging them back.
That’s because limerence hijacks the reward circuits in the brain. The affair partner becomes the symbol of relief, of excitement, of possibility. So when they're absent—or worse, indifferent—it feels like withdrawal. Sadness isn’t just sadness. It’s despair. Because the mind isn’t mourning the loss of a person—it’s mourning the loss of a drug.
And if you’ve ever wondered why someone would risk everything—family, reputation, stability—for a connection that doesn’t even make sense on paper… this is why. Limerence doesn’t run on logic. It runs on neurochemistry.
It promises bliss. It delivers obsession. And until the person sees through the illusion, they may keep chasing that mental high—no matter the cost.
Let’s talk about Eric (a pseudonym).
Late fifties. Married to his wife for 27 years. They’ve got two teenage sons.
Then one day, Eric reconnects with someone from his past—a woman he dated briefly in college. She sends a friend request on Facebook. No big deal. He accepts. They chat a little. Memories resurface. Nothing dramatic. Just warm nostalgia wrapped in curiosity.
But then he starts checking Facebook more often. Waiting for her messages. Re-reading the old ones. She compliments him. Asks questions his wife hasn’t asked in years. Says she always wondered what might’ve happened if they’d stayed together.
It’s harmless, he tells himself. Just two people catching up.
But inside his head, something starts to shift.
He’s lying awake at night. Not from stress or work—but from imagining her. What she’s doing. If she’s thinking about him. He’s driving his son to soccer practice and realizing he’s mentally reciting their last conversation. He forgets where he put his keys because his mind is stuck replaying her laugh.
Eric knows it’s not rational. He doesn’t even know her life story anymore. She could be completely wrong for him. But the emotional pull feels magnetic—necessary. He feels seen again. Alive. Important.
And that’s when it hits: he can’t stop thinking about her.
Even when he wants to. Even when he swears he’s done.
Because this isn’t about romance—it’s about limerence. A psychological loop that’s hijacked his thoughts and overclocked his emotional system. Every time she messages, it’s a dopamine hit. Every time she goes quiet, it’s withdrawal.
Meanwhile, his wife senses it. The distance. The disinterest. She thinks he’s being selfish, and he is. But in his own mind, Eric feels like a man possessed—obsessed with someone who barely knows him anymore, all while ignoring the life he built.
He didn’t plan for this. Didn’t expect it. But now he can’t stop the loop.
That’s limerence. Not a love story. A system override.
And unless Eric learns what’s really happening—and gets help—it’ll cost him everything.
Limerence Always Fades
The thing about limerence is that it feels eternal—like a spell that rewires reality. But here’s what the research, and the rearview mirrors of countless lives, make clear: it always fades. Not sometimes. Not occasionally. Always.
It burns hot, then burns out. Typically within a few months to a few years. The trouble is, by the time the smoke clears, it’s not just the fantasy that’s gone—it’s often the marriage, the family rhythms, the quiet kind of love that was there all along, waiting for someone to notice it again.
And that’s the trap.
Because if someone doesn’t understand what real love looks like—steady, imperfect, built on choice more than chemistry—they don’t sit with the disappointment when limerence fades. They go looking for the next hit. Another “spark.” Another person to make them feel alive, adored, seen. The problem isn’t the partner. The problem is the map they’re using to navigate intimacy.
Real love isn’t about being swept away. It’s about showing up. Over and over. When it’s exciting, yes—but especially when it’s not.
Dana and her husband, Jason, had been through the storm. The affair had come to light six months ago—one of those slow, awful reveals that starts with a gut feeling and ends with a confession you wish you never heard.
Jason said it was over.
He cut off contact. Deleted the messages. Promised he’d stay. He even started therapy. And Dana, heartbroken but hopeful, stayed too.
But something was off.
He wasn’t chasing the affair anymore—but he also wasn’t fully here. His eyes had a faraway look. He moved through the house like a man trying to remember how to breathe underwater. He said all the right things: "I'm sorry," "I want to make this work," "I'm here now." But his energy told a different story.
He wasn’t grieving her, Dana realized. He was grieving the other woman.
He’d “ended” the affair, but not in his heart. Not in his mind.
He was still haunted—by memories, fantasies, what-ifs. Dana would catch him staring at nothing, and she knew exactly where his mind had gone. She could feel it. When their son made a joke at dinner, Jason smiled politely—but it didn’t reach his eyes. When Dana reached for his hand, he flinched, like he’d forgotten who she was.
It was like living with someone in mourning. Only the person they were mourning was the one who helped tear their world apart.
And that—that—was the most gutting part.
Not just the betrayal. Not just the lies. But watching the man she loved ache for someone else. Watching him spiral through withdrawal like an addict missing his drug.
He said he didn’t want her anymore—that it was just a phase, a mistake, a crash. But Dana had read about it now. She knew the word: limerence. This wasn’t just an affair. It was a neurochemical bond that hadn’t finished breaking.
He wasn’t in love. He was still in the loop.
He’d shut the door, but stood on the other side, hand on the doorknob, heart pressed to the wood.
Dana tried not to be angry, but the anger came anyway. She was still here. Still cooking dinners, folding laundry, holding the family together. And he was still chasing shadows in his head.
She wanted to scream: Pick us. Pick real life. Let her go.
But she didn’t scream. She waited. And watched.
Because she knew this wasn’t just about forgiveness—it was about survival. About whether Jason could face the crash and still choose to live on the other side of it. About whether he could give up the fantasy long enough to see what was real.
What she knew now was this: the affair might be over.
But the addiction wasn’t.
Not yet.
Understanding limerence changes the story. It takes an affair out of the realm of mystery and brings it into the light of psychological truth. That doesn’t make it hurt less—but it can make it hurt differently. Because when you know what you’re up against, you stop internalizing the pain as personal failure. You stop asking, “What did I lack?” and start asking, “What were they trying to feel?”
Limerence isn’t love—it’s emotional turbulence masked as destiny. And when it fades, as it always does, the question becomes: What now? What happens when the fog lifts and you’re left with a partner who doesn’t just need forgiveness, but needs to rebuild their emotional compass? That’s where the real work begins—not in chasing the past, but in creating something deeper, more grounded, and far more honest.
You don’t have to do that alone.
If you’re ready to stop feeling stuck in the aftermath of betrayal and start rebuilding something real, we invite you to attend the Healing Broken Trust Couples Workshop. It’s a step-by-step process guided by experts who understand the trauma of infidelity and the emotional chaos of limerence. You’ll get the tools to reconnect, rebuild trust, and finally understand what went wrong—together. If you’re both ready to heal and want a clear path forward, this is where it starts. Visit healingbrokentrust.com/hbtworkshop to learn more.
