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Casually, I Love You. Casually, I Hope You Know.

The opinions expressed in this article are the writer’s own and do not reflect the views of Her Campus.
This article is written by a student writer from the Her Campus at Ashoka chapter.

Come and sit next to me. It’s been so long since I saw you last. Let me brush the hair strands off your face. I can make you a grilled cheese sandwich and a comforter that keeps you warm. We can sit in silence and laugh at sitcoms, and fall asleep with our arms touching.

Why do I have to paint a house blue to tell you that I love you? When I can be the one who consistently laughs at all your jokes even when you blow the punchline. Even when everyone seems to evade you.

Why do we not talk about casual intimacy? The intimacy of intertwined fingers and giggles across the rooms, of fruits cut and placed on our bed on the days when we can’t get out of bed.

The intimacy of dotingly looking at someone while they don’t have a clue.

Of making sure that someone walks ahead of you on the footpath so you don’t lose sight of them, so that they’re safe. There could be no possible danger that would hurt them, but your eyes might ache if you take them off them.

The intimacy of telling someone you miss a tiny detail about them. How big there nose is, and how they tie their shoelaces.

The intimacy of plain old eye contact when words fail to do their job. Of looking them in the eyes and saying everything you hoped you could put into words at some point.

The intimacy of hour long hugs to piece back together someone who is on the brink of falling apart. Collecting into yourself the pieces of them too fragile to hold together. Merging with their sorrows.

The intimacy of not even breathing because you’re completely, mindlessly and wholesomely absorbed in the moment when someone rests their head on your shoulder. How dare you move? And commit the grave sin of disturbing their peace? They are the most tranquil, beautiful person you ever laid eyes on. You will protect them from the entire world if you could. Maybe even at your own cost.

The intimacy of feeding someone with your own hands even when they insist they’ll eat the bite themselves. Of the angsty tension in the moment when you both subtly make your hand accessible hoping the other old holds it because you’re too afraid. Of being silly with them, at no stakes.

The intimacy of the absurdly unfinished, deep and yearning conversations while walking someone home at night. You will know their favourite colour and it will become yours immediately. You will also see them cry about how they felt inadequate when their friend back in middle school chose someone else as their bench partner.

The intimacy of reaching out for the same book on the shelf of a library and coyly smiling, only to signal the other person to take it instead. You came for the book, but you stayed just for them. Reading their eyes when they’re indulged, is more fun anyway.

The intimacy of comparing hand sizes by joining them while joking about how one is oh so very tiny compared to the other. Of innocent touch, so gentle and pure that you feel like a feather brush against your cheek.

The intimacy of comfortable silences on phone calls and in the same room when you’re not constantly wondering about what you should say to keep the conversation going. You’re here. I’m here. Isn’t that all that matters anyway?

The intimacy of waiting for someone who got left behind when the whole group is walking away only to show them in the most simple, inexpensive way that they’re wanted. I’ll wait for you, always. It will be the easiest thing I will ever do.

The intimacy of sitting a feet apart but staring at the sky, talking about your day, describing the most mundane details of it all and devouring the conversation like it’s the last one. Of feeling the glaze in your hearts, and seeing it in their eyes.

The intimacy of knowing how much sugar goes into someone’s coffee. Of not leaving the airport till you can see the airplane they’re in take off with your own eyes, as if you have any part to play in how that would affect their journey. Of praying for someone to be happy without them ever knowing about it.

Of smiling at your phone and letting the other person command the rush of blood into your cheeks when you’re miles apart. Of buying them trinkets from the bazaar because they remind you of them. Of casual affection that feels like lullabies in your childhood bedroom.

The intimacy of not even realising it’s intimacy, because that’s how organically it comes to you.

And when you wake up tomorrow morning, I will kiss your eyes and draw the blinds before I leave the room. I don’t want you to wake up too early.

I won’t tell you that I love you, but I hope the note that I left about breakfast on your desk does.

Stuti Sharma

Ashoka '24

Stuti is a third year Psychology major and Creative Writing minor at Ashoka University. She loves writing and can be found impulse-buying jhumkas, unnecessary outfits and fridge magnets, and consuming the most absurd media ever. She is the token mom of the group surrounded by walking reminders of how short she is. She already loves you.