Literature's Most Toxic Couples & Why We Can't Stop Reading

Long before Edward and Bella, classical literature had already produced a dazzling array of couples so emotionally toxic they basically belong in a nuclear waste containment facility. And yet, centuries later, we hold them up as the gold standard of romance. One can’t help but wonder if Shakespeare or Brontë are spinning in their graves.

Convincing the public that Romeo and Juliet isn’t the greatest love story of all time is an uphill battle, but (1) I enjoy a challenge and (2) if you clicked this title, chances are this idea is neither new nor radical to you.

Using the Enneagram as a taxonomy for sorting personalities, I’ll break down the dysfunction of these iconic couples. If you know the Enneagram, this will feel delightfully obvious. If you don’t, no matter—it’s simply a more organized way of explaining why what passes for an intoxicating read is, in fact, a toxic, trauma-bonded disaster. 

Heathcliff and Catherine in Wuthering Heights

Whoever dares to pick up a copy of Emily Brontë's masterpiece—perhaps inspired by the recently released adaptation—should be warned: this is not a love story.

Heathcliff and Catherine are both unmistakably Enneagram Type 4s in their unhealthiest way. They're hypersensitive, identity-obsessed and consumed by a deep sense of elitism. Driven by a desire to be unique and special, they fight the bleak reality of the moors in the most Type 4 way possible—by blaming everyone around them for their misery.

From childhood, Catherine has been desperate to break out of the constraints of her world. She was notorious for throwing tantrums and disobeying authorities. The arrival of Heathcliff fueled her rebellious spirit and radicalized her already unruly character. Meanwhile, Heathcliff, an orphan of unknown background, was a manipulative and unpleasant child from the start, but Hindley's relentless abuse further amplified his disagreeable personality.

Catherine's “love” for Heathcliff eventually drove her insane. Heathcliff, led by resentment and revenge, dedicated his adult life to punishing everyone who ever made him feel small, repeating the cycle of cruelty that caused his suffering in the first place.

They are both tragic, unlikable heroes—hard to tell who's worse—but the real villain of the story is the dynamic itself.

Instead of balancing each other out, they created a feedback loop of dysfunction. They validated each other's destructive patterns and became completely enmeshed. Their connection grew out of a shared sense of exile. They recognized in each other the uniqueness that the world denied them and interpreted that recognition as love. Unable to belong anywhere else, they clung to each other as mirrors, loving not the other person but the tortured self they saw reflected back.

And somehow, we called it romance.

Jay Gatsby and Daisy Buchanan in The Great Gatsby

F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Jazz Age classic is essentially a 180-page-long case study in limerence.

Jay Gatsby is a self-made man in the most literal sense—he's invented an entire identity, complete with a fabricated past, wealth and image, all designed with one goal in mind. Getting the love of his life back, you say? Oh no, to prove that he’s worthy. 

Type 3s, who Gatsby undeniably is, are motivated by success and external validation. Naturally, all that drive could be channeled for good, but Gatsby is possessed by only one desire—to restore his sense of worthiness by getting Daisy back. 

Daisy, meanwhile, drifts through life seeking pleasure and avoiding anything unpleasant. She's charming, easily delighted, always chasing the next amusing distraction. When confronted with difficult choices or uncomfortable truths, she simply disappears into her privilege, leaving others to deal with the consequences. This is a classic Type 7 behavior.

Their toxic dynamic, like with Catherine and Heathcliff, comes from the fact that they don’t really see each other as real people. Daisy is Gatsby’s reclamation fantasy, and Gatsby is Daisy’s, well, pastime. One party is absurdly overfunctioning while the other is blatantly underfunctioning. Type 3 deploys his entire showmanship to win the Type 7's approval. 

The Seven enjoys the spectacle, but she never intended to linger when things got hard; that wasn’t what she signed up for. When she’s asked to make an actual sacrifice—to choose Gatsby at the cost of her plain but comfortable life—she vanishes. Gatsby, having tied his entire sense of self to the fantasy, is left with nothing. 

He dies for an illusion. She doesn’t even attend his funeral. True love indeed.

Romeo and Juliet in Romeo and Juliet

Have we forgotten that Shakespeare is a master of mischief? Otherwise, how do we read a play about two teenagers who knew each other for four days before dying for it, and miss that irony might be the point?

Romeo is a Renaissance sad boy with absolutely no emotional regulation. When we meet him, he's dramatically suffering over a certain Rosaline who doesn't want him. He’s drowning in melancholy and making it everyone else's problem. Then he sees Juliet at a party—where he hoped to meet Rosaline, might I add— and then poof, Rosaline who? His feelings aren’t rooted in attachment to a person; they’re rooted in attachment to a state. He’s a Type 4.

Juliet reads as Type 2. She desperately wants to be loved, to be more than just her family's marriageable asset. When Romeo shows up professing instant, eternal love, she latches onto it because it makes her feel significant. She’s chosen. She’s loved. Type 2s need to be needed, and Romeo needs her intensely.

Their entire relationship spans four days. Four. Days. They meet Sunday night, marry Monday afternoon, consummate the marriage Tuesday, and they're both dead by Thursday morning. In that time, they never had a single conversation about anything real. They never even discuss what they'll do after they run away together. It's all “your eyes are like stars” and “I'll die without you,” which, spoiler alert, they do.

The real toxicity is that they enable each other's worst impulses. Romeo's romanticized suffering meets Juliet's desperation to escape, and neither of them stops to think. When Romeo kills Tybalt, does Juliet reconsider whether this man is stable enough to build a life with? No. When Juliet fakes her death, does Romeo wait for literally any confirmation before drinking poison? Also no.

They don't die for love. They die because two teenagers with underdeveloped prefrontal cortexes and a flair for drama had access to poison and daggers. But we just somehow missed the memo and started naming high school proms after them.

Anna Karenina and Count Vronsky in Anna Karenina

Unlike the rest, this novel actually does give us an example of true love—just not where we're looking. It's Kitty and Levin, not Anna and Vronsky. Tolstoy sets them up as deliberate contrasts. We, as the clever, intelligent audience, are supposed to read between the lines and conclude that Anna and Vronsky are the cautionary tale, while Kitty and Levin represent the healthy model. 

But that's not what our drama-starved minds latch onto, is it?

Anna is a Type 4 trapped in a loveless marriage to a cold, status-obsessed man. She's suffocating under the weight of societal expectations and the profound sense that she's wasting her one precious life. When Vronsky pursues her, she experiences the intensity she's been craving. She feels seen, alive and special.

Vronsky, a classic Type 3, is drawn to Anna precisely because she’s unattainable. The pursuit flatters his self-image; the conquest confirms his worth. Once Anna sacrifices everything—including her access to her son!—the dynamic shifts. The fantasy has been achieved. What’s left is a real woman with real needs, and Vronsky is far less interested in that part. 

Having lost pretty much everything she cared for, Anna clings to Vronsky as her last source of meaning. Every time he's away, she spirals into paranoia. For a Type 4, seduced by desire disguised as devotion, the tragedy is cruelly circular: in fleeing insignificance, she fell into an even greater version of it.

Vronsky begins to resent her intensity, her needs. Anna, sensing the shift, grows more desperate. The feedback loop accelerates until she throws herself under a train—and while Vronsky is devastated, it’s hard not to notice how neatly the tragedy absolves him. Her death conveniently releases him from the far messier task of choosing her, publicly and permanently, in life.

I love Anna Karenina artistically, and I admire how mercilessly it exposes the double standards imposed on women, but as a model of romantic love? I’ll pass.

Why Do We Romanticize Toxicity?

These stories, unhealthy as they are, touch something achingly basic—the dichotomy of the human condition.

We crave safety as much as we long for intensity. We read about all-consuming love from an armchair, warmed by the steady comfort of our domestic fire. Dramatic love stories expose our core fears and desires. The terror of abandonment. The longing to be chosen. The need to matter, to feel special, to be seen. 

We don’t fall for their protagonists by chance—we recognize ourselves in them. Through their suffering, we permit ourselves to imagine risk, excess and indulgence: what it might feel like to follow our most unhinged cravings, all while our partner brings us a cup of tea and places a gentle kiss on our forehead.