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For most of my twenties, if a man didn’t make my stomach hurt, I assumed it probably wasn’t love.
The ache, the uncertainty, the obsessive checking of my phone — that was the high I chased. I thought love was meant to feel like turbulence, and assumed that if it wasn’t a little bit painful, dramatic, and all-consuming, then surely it wasn’t real.
Looking back, I realise I wasn’t in love with love — I was addicted to the adrenaline that came with…
