Fanaa (Peter Parker)

Chapter 18

No torture is worse than being in love with a memory, a ghost, just the spirit of a thing I used to be able to touch.

It is not romantic; It's painful and consuming and the memory of him never, ever fades.

Everyone wants a love that will consume them. No matter what anyone says, no matter how many times they might disagree, it's a basic fact. Humans crave affection. They crave the feeling of being in love and feeling that same emotion back. They love the idea of love.

So, why do we fall in love?

Well, the scientific reason of being in love comes from three chemicals in the brain. First, noradrenaline. This stimulates the racing heart and sweaty palms, the annoying shit everyone hates. Second, dopamine. This is the feel-good chemical, the one that makes you swoon and smile over every little thing. Last, phenylethylamine. This gives us the butterflies in our stomach that makes us feel like we need to vomit up our own heart and ribcage at the mere sight of the one we love.

There you have it folks. You can blame those three measly chemicals for making us deal with the bullshit that is 'love'.

Human beings were literally made to fall in love. We were made to feel the appetency for love. The limerence and ethereal feelings that come from being held and kissed by the one you love most. The overwhelming feeling of wanting to crawl inside their ribcage, nestle next to their heart and live there forever. The intoxicating need to be next to them at all times and wanting to touch every inch of their pulchritudinous body full of natural disasters.

But nobody tells you about the heartbreak.

The ear shattering pain that comes from literally hearing and feeling your own heart fall into minuscule pieces on the floor. Your mouth filling up with blood after every I love you. Picking your own skin off of your bones at the mere memory of them. Finding ways to kill yourself with all the things they left behind. Feeling yourself shaking over them in the middle of the night until your teeth crack. Throwing up in the bathroom when the pain literally makes you so fucking nauseous.

They never warn you about that last part. When the love dies. And after figuring all of this out, I realized two important factors.

One, I'm not a scientist and two, I am not a fucking human being anymore.

T W O M O N T H S L A T E R

"Another robbery has taken place at a local penthouse in the center of New York City. Three individuals were found dead inside the resident's home, still waiting to be identified. The individual has stolen large amounts of money from the owners, along with countless valuables. So far, police have not identified the suspect that they believe has been up to the many robberies and murders around New York. All the police know is that the suspect entered through the wind—"

I shut the TV off as the darkness fills my ever forlornly room. I run a tired hand through my unwashed and greasy hair and let out a sigh. I reach a hand out in the dark, trying to grasp the bottle of bourbon I had lying on my bed. I pat around blindly until my hands stumble upon the bottle and I hold it tightly in my hands. I pop the cap off and bring the liquor to my lips. I swallow down the drink, ignoring the burning sensation in my throat, until I finish the rest of the bourbon off. I let out a groan as I realized I finished the last bottle left in my room.