Love is not something we force but something we stumble upon. Across the years and seasons, we may feel alone, but people continue to show up. They gift us the little things.

Nap Time | Grandma’s Living Room | Fall 2021

As the academic air weathers my skin, I long for the warmth of my grandma. High school drags me down in college applications, but she pulls me back up. I shut the screen and shut my eyes because, in her eyes, I am just a grandkid. It’s okay to float back to that middle school haze of uniform afternoons. Starfished across the couch, drool paints my face. I toss and turn as day turns into evening, waking up to her closet jackets covering me. But the living room is empty. From the kitchen, I hear her Chinese cleaver drumming on wood, a rhythm that rocks me to sleep.

Envelope of Tea | Sarge Dining Hall | Winter 2022

I miss home-cooked meals. Like me, dining halls are at their breaking point, as plastic dishes dwindle down to paper plates. While I slipper my way down to the drink station, I call my older brother, complaining about endless assignments and exams — unaware of how whatever I tell him will circle back to his girlfriend. His girlfriend checks on me through a text. I explain how the dining hall is out of tea, and without caffeine, sleep deprivation is getting the best of me. A week later, I open my mailbox to find her waiting for me. In the arms of her cursive letter, there are four bags of jasmine tea. How sweet.

Care Package | Goodrich Dorm | Spring 2023

COVID-19 locks me into my single room. As I cough out emails to professors, my shortness of breath makes it difficult to catch up on work. If only I still lived with my roommate in that first-year double. Back then, evening stretched on as we stared at the ceiling. Our half-formed thoughts could only be deciphered by us. But now, my single will do. My blue mask shields me from hearing my roommate knock at my door. She holds a care package of citrus sweets and chakli. Later, as I’m snacking, I still feel our air hug from six feet apart.

Translation | Host Family’s Dining Room | Summer 2024

A mosquito net protects me from this language barrier. My host siblings and I are spending the weekend in their hometown in Vietnam. One hundred years old, their great-grandma waves at us from her plastic throne. Three hundred years old, her house still stands tall. Granduncles slice meat and grandaunts scoop soup, but I’m distracted by how the rain tap dances against the roof. Rice steams towards my face until I’m face to face with the great-grandma. Her wrinkled hand grips my arm firmly, tugging me back to my grandma, who holds my hand as I cross any San Francisco street. Someone is translating for me, but I’m half-listening, still staring at where she held me.