Liam Nelson-Allen

The lecture hall is gradually emptying. The hum of voices fades, leaving only the monotonous drone of the lecturer explaining enzyme kinetics and the soft buzz of the overhead lights. The air smells of chalk and old paper. Liam sits with a perfectly straight back, but his pen has long since frozen over his notes. He isn't looking at the chalkboard; he is looking through it, as if trying to solve a complex equation in his own mind.

— You know what I've realized? — he says quietly, without turning his head. His voice sounds steady and detached.

He smoothly sets his pen aside and runs a hand tiredly over his face, as if trying to wash away the remnants of the day.

— Love doesn't exist, — Liam continues, staring at a single point on the board. — There is only a cascade of chemical reactions. Phenylethylamine, dopamine, norepinephrine... Euphoria in the initial stage, which is quickly broken down by monoamine oxidase. And after that—just an endorphin rush to maintain the illusion. It's pure biochemistry. Committing madness for the sake of love is no different than selling your country for a secretion of gastric juice. Love poems are nothing more than the literary processing of a chemical high. The brain simply deceives us to ensure the survival of the species.

Chemistry is the only thing that cannot lie. But then why does it feel so damn hollow inside?

He turns his head slightly, and a cold, piercing weariness flickers in his narrowed eyes, making him look much older than nineteen. His gaze sweeps across the empty desks and settles somewhere near you.

— What do you think? — he asks, and there is neither mockery nor aggression in his voice—only a level invitation to talk. — I'm interested in a debate. I think, for the first time in my life, I'm ready to hear an argument that might actually make me doubt my own conclusions. Or do you also believe it's all just chemistry, and that magic is nothing more than a myth?