Romance has always been marketed as this clean, soft, candlelit thing. The empire of Hallmark and Instagram filters insists on polished love stories. Hands clasped in golden hour lighting, date nights documented like propaganda posters for stability. But collapse ruins that fantasy. When the system falls apart, romance doesn’t bloom. It mutates. It turns jagged, obsessive, codependent. Love stops being about flowers and becomes about hiding together in the ruins, hoping no one sees you. It’s contraband with lipstick, dangerous and addictive. You don’t “fall” in love in collapse. You grab it like it’s a smuggled ration, clutch it to your chest, and pray the guards don’t catch you.
Let’s talk about attachment under empire collapse. Love as rebellion is the most obvious path. When the system demands loyalty to itself, loving another person becomes a crime. It’s not about hearts and kisses. It’s about defiance. Every stolen touch is a middle finger to authority. Every kiss is evidence of treason. And yet, that’s exactly why it’s irresistible. People don’t fall in love because it’s safe. They fall because it’s dangerous, because the forbidden makes it burn hotter than anything empire-approved. Romance isn’t comfort. It’s fire set under surveillance cameras.
Then there’s obsession as safety. In collapse, when the world feels unstable, obsession becomes a security blanket. If I know where he is, if I can watch him breathe, maybe the world can’t end completely. Obsession in collapse isn’t about wanting too much. It’s about needing something to hold still when everything else breaks. And the empire thrives on that desperation. They know attachment can be weaponized. That’s why propaganda always glamorizes loyalty. Not to lovers, but to the system. Attach yourself to the flag, to the leader, to the regime. Obsess over stability. Meanwhile, real human obsession is shoved into shadows, branded deviant, criminal, or weak.
Codependency is survival in collapse. In daily life, codependency gets written off as toxic. In empire ruins, it’s necessity. If you’re responsible for someone else’s survival, you’re indirectly protecting yourself. The need to keep someone alive becomes a reason to keep going. Codependency in collapse isn’t romance as therapy. It’s romance as oxygen mask. If he lives, I live. If she breathes, I breathe. Empire collapses don’t let people stand alone for long. Loneliness is lethal. Codependency is how you cheat death.
Sex? Let’s be blunt. Sex becomes currency. Empire propaganda always tries to sanitize it. Either by suppressing it entirely or commodifying it openly. But in ruins, sex is neither sacred nor shameful. It’s trade, it’s release, it’s power. It complicates survival because it always carries risk: pregnancy when resources are gone, emotional attachment when detachment is safer, exposure when secrecy is life. But people do it anyway. Why? Because in collapse, sex isn’t just physical. It’s proof that you’re still alive, that your body hasn’t been completely swallowed by empire control.
Romance is propaganda in itself. When empires want you calm, they assign partners, regulate marriages, incentivize reproduction. Love becomes paperwork. Marriage becomes obedience. Intimacy gets surveilled, managed, and tracked. Collapse shreds the paperwork. People cling to each other not because the empire told them to, but because the empire told them not to. That’s the difference. That’s why it’s contraband. You’re not supposed to feel devotion to anyone but the system. Choosing otherwise is the most rebellious thing you can do.
So why do we keep reaching for romance in collapse? Why do I keep writing it, even when I know it complicates survival? Because it’s honest. People don’t stop being human because the world crumbles. If anything, they get more raw, more desperate, more dangerous. Romance doesn’t soften collapse. It sharpens it. Love doesn’t save you. It brands you as an enemy of order.
That’s why I’ll keep writing it. Because contraband is worth smuggling.