Tequila and Tea

When the crush is hot, sweet, present—and still not meant to last

It always starts the same way: a spark, a glance, a flirty message that lands just right. But this time? He was younger. Not “I could be your babysitter back in the 90s” younger, but enough that I had at least two decades more therapy, heartbreak, and Saturn returns under my belt.

He was charming. Not in the manipulative way—no, in that honest, present, golden-retriever kind of way that younger men somehow still remember how to embody. He listened. He remembered things I said. He texted good morning and sent songs that made him think of me. And that combination? Lethal.

He made me laugh. He looked at me like I was magic. Like I held the wisdom of a thousand full moons and the allure of something just slightly out of reach. And I’ll admit—it was intoxicating.

We talked about everything. He wanted to know what books I read, what breathwork was like, why I still believed in divine timing. He leaned in—hard. No pulling away, no confusion, no breadcrumbing. Just full presence and that boyish delight in showing me his world—wild nights, spontaneous playlists, unfiltered joy.

And I? I let myself melt a little. I let myself believe that maybe this could be something… different.

Because here’s the truth no one talks about when it comes to limerence: it doesn’t always come with red flags. Sometimes it comes in the form of someone who is deeply into you. Someone who sees your calm and calls it beautiful. Someone who feels like a balm to your nervous system and a spark to your soul, at the same time.

You start imagining things. Not wedding bells, but late summer nights. Road trips. Jokes only the two of you understand. A life with a little less control and a little more tequila and music and mornings where someone brings you coffee without asking.

But limerence isn’t about reality. It’s about possibility. It’s the fantasy that this thing—this beautiful, affirming, exciting thing—could turn into the one thing your heart still aches for.

The truth is, he did nothing wrong. In fact, he did everything right.

It’s just that the connection, however alive, didn’t have roots. And I didn’t want to clip my wings to fit into someone else’s season of self-discovery. Because at some point, I realized I was the muse, the mystery, the magnetic woman he got to experience—maybe even love—but not necessarily partner with.

I was the phase that showed him what depth felt like. He was the reminder that I still get to play. That my body is alive, my mind is magnetic, and yes—men will absolutely light up when they get near me.

That wasn’t heartbreak.
That was holy recalibration.

Limerence, in this case, wasn’t painful—it was poetic. It was the recognition that not all connections are meant to anchor. Some are meant to wake something up inside of you. To remind you what you’re worth. What you still want. What you’re no longer afraid to feel.

So now, when I meet someone younger and bright-eyed who listens like he means it and kisses like it’s an offering, I smile.
I enjoy it.
I stay open.
But I also stay sovereign.

Because as magnetic as limerence can be, I’ve learned to fall for men who can match me—not just in passion, but in presence. Not just in spark, but in structure.

And until then? I’ll keep choosing the one constant lover who never ghosts, never crumbles, and always upgrades: me.