the psychological basis for falling in love // a newtmas au

1

After spending $50k and a year working towards a degree in psychology, Thomas can confidently state two things:

1. The human brain needs sleep.

2. There is no stable psychological basis for love. No real equation, no chemical balance that strikes just so, and bam—15 years of marriage, 2 and a half kids, a mortgage.

There have been a variety of theories throughout the years: that love is a simple triangular system; a combination of intimacy, passion, commitment (Sternberg, 1988). Or that the feeling of love is addictive on a chemical basis, a sudden rush of dopamine so powerful it mimics the effects of the same drugs Thomas had experimented with during his first semester (sorry, Mom). Or maybe Freud was right, and everyone just wanted to fuck their parents (God, again: sorry, Mom).

Regardless, the whole thing makes Approximately Zero Fucking Sense. Which is why the sheer absurdity of hinging his entire grade for PS342: Feeling and Acting, on writing a paper explaining love and all of its psychological woes seems to hit him all at once, and just two weeks into the semester.

"No, Teresa, I don't think you understand. I can't do this." His whining is barely heard beneath the fabric of Thomas's sweatshirt, nose buried deep into the crook of his elbow. The fluorescent lighting of the library seems to mock him, head violently pounding with the beginnings of a migraine.

"Don't be a baby," she chides, moving the half-empty cold brew out of Thomas's reach, taking notice of the carelessness of his movements. Sleep deprivation tends to impact his motor functions first, fingers fumbling over his keyboard long before his brain stops working. She shoves her bottle of water at him instead, appropriately covered in stickers. "Drink. It'll help with your headache."

Thomas doesn't question how she knows about the headache, long used to her ability to practically read his mind. Lifelong friendship—albeit a very brief, two month-long preteen relationship—has done that to them, pulling them into one another until they practically thought as one.

Thomas wouldn't be surprised if they shared the same singular brain cell at this point, and briefly considers just killing it off with a swift smack of his head to the wooden table between them. He quickly decides against it, drinking deeply from the water bottle instead, thumb poised over the face of a cartoon giraffe.

"Feel better?"

"No." It's a lie, and they both know it.

There's probably another hour until either one of them speaks again, Teresa busy annotating a manuscript, lilac highlighter between her teeth, Thomas attempting to jot down notes for yet another study on the increasingly-fucking-elusive psychology of love. This one tells him that because the first step to falling in love with someone is an initial attraction (Kane, 2016), looks actually do matter. Lucky for him.

Of course, this discovery immediately leads him to his phone camera, brushing self-conscious fingers over his face, scrutinizing the dark circles beneath his eyes.

God, would it really kill him to run a brush through his hair every once in a while?

When he finally looks away from his reflection, sufficiently disappointed, it's to meet Teresa's stare, blue eyes inquisitive. He watches her debate asking him, hiding her smile in the back of her hand before being interrupted by the buzzing of her phone, face-down next to her binders.

Thomas feigns interest in his laptop screen once again, the words coming in and out of focus until he is literally snapped out of it by Teresa, manicured fingernails inches away from his face. This week's color is a blush pink, accented by silver sparkles on her pinkie nails.

"Time to eat," is all she says, busying herself with putting all of her belongings into the canvas tote slung over the back of her chair. "Pancakes from Fry's, courtesy of Sonya."

She needn't say more, as Thomas's senses of both self pity and GPA-induced anxiety are quickly overpowered by the innate biological need for a tower of chocolate chips and syrup.

The fresh air and sunlight reinvigorate the two of them as they leave the library, each step towards the diner feeling a little lighter than the last. September brings a lush coat of green to campus, scattering students across the expanse of the courtyard, lounging atop picnic blankets, laptops and books left in the grass. A single cellist has set up near one of the cement columns of the overhang, playing either Beethoven or Brahms (Thomas isn't particularly well-versed in the classics) brows knitted together in concentration, fingers moving across the neck of the instrument with ease.

By the time they reach the front doors, Thomas almost feels alive again, the effects of actually going outside for once embarrassingly apparent. He makes a silent promise to himself to join his classmates in the courtyard while the weather is still nice.

For someone so close to Teresa, Thomas is almost surprised that this is his first time actually meeting Sonya. He had heard many stories about her, an education major with an affinity for both astrology and her girlfriend, Harriet—"they make the cutest couple, Tom!"—starting her second year as an exchange student from London. He vaguely remembers picking Teresa up from an apartment a few blocks away from campus, presumably the one Sonya leases with her older brother.

(Of course, he remembers less of the apartment than he does of Teresa's utterly incapacitated state, in a state of near-tears over some girl she had "totally fucked things up with". When Thomas asked about it over coffee and breakfast sandwiches the next day, she had blushed a fierce shade of scarlet and claimed to be suffering from alcohol-induced amnesia.)

Teresa is quick to drag Thomas over to a booth stuck in the corner of the diner, grip tight on the cuff of his jean jacket. The worn leather seats are obviously overcrowded, but Teresa is resilient, squeezing herself into the seat next to a blonde girl, pulling Thomas down by her side before he has the chance to escape.

The blonde girl introduces herself as Sonya, holding out a hand—covered in an intricate pattern of floral tattoos, clay rings on nearly every finger—for Thomas to shake. Her accent brings a soft lilt to her voice, top lip a perfect bow as she tells Thomas how lovely it is to finally meet him in person. There's a certain glow to Sonya, beauty almost otherworldly, undeniable in the gentle roundness of her brown eyes, makeup shimmering in the warm light emanating from overhead.

Across from Sonya is Harriet, who is all stern brows and rounded cheeks. With curls pulled back into elaborate box braids, she simply offers Thomas a hello and a nod, before turning back towards Minho. Within seconds, her shoulders go taut, eyes narrow, poised to fight. What his roommate could possibly be arguing with Harriet over, Thomas doesn't know, doesn't care, as he finally meets the eyes of the final guest seated at the table.

Fact: 'love at first sight' is a pile of Hollywood-grade horseshit. Dr. Florian Zsok debunked it in 2017, interviewing nearly 400 students just to come to the conclusion that it's simply lust, mislabeled for the sake of self-preservation. Because everything in psychology comes back to sex. Obviously.

Fact: Newt Ross is unlike anyone Thomas has seen before. His hair, a mess of blonde, curls haphazardly behind his ears, bangs falling over angled eyebrows. Deep brown eyes search Thomas's as he swallows hard, mouth suddenly desert dry. "Hello" is accompanied by the crossing of pale arms across his slight chest, leaning back against his seat, mouth quirked up on one side. Thomas nearly swallows his own tongue in lieu of responding.

Fact: not a single one of the pairs interviewed by Zsok expressed a mutual interest in one another upon first glance.

In short, Thomas is fucked.