confessions of love by Anonymous
Photo by the Author
i just saw a little black dog walking with its owner, and they looked so sweet with each other, a wave of warmth washed over me. in that moment, the whole world seemed to revolve around the old man and his little dog, so peaceful and loving.
love is… when i open the fridge and my favourite drink is magically there. when i see the sunrise as I trudge early to class. when my friends send me a funny post that makes me belly-laugh.
a lot of people say love is hard to explain, but at its core it’s pretty simple to me.
love is when my mom buys me my favourite drink the day before, knowing i would be coming home the next day. love is when i get to see my friends and talk about everything, yet nothing at all. love is when the day ends, i know the sun will rise again tomorrow, and with that i get to try again. love is gratitude.
why is the last stage of love then letting go? giving in to the immutable nature of time, or the forbidding spatial forces that keep people apart. perhaps we can only tell that we’ve loved after we’ve lost. the four letter word ‘miss’ as a symptom of its root cause ‘love’, i miss you — is saying i love you, but i am afraid that it is too late.
but there cannot be loss without love. knowing this gives me relief. knowing that the greatness in our connection is what brings about multitudes of emotion, and knowing that what was good, will stay good forever.
in its various transfigurations, love in its purest form is everywhere! it is in every moment and in every place even if we are unaware of it. in the body of the old man and in that of his tiny companion, this valentine’s day love is in being. happy valentine’s day.
Love, in the Little Things by Jun Wei Cheow
Love is not grand gestures. It is not declarations under the moonlight, nor bouquets wrapped in crisp paper. Love lives in the smallest of things—the spaces between words, the quiet sacrifices no one asks for, the presence that lingers even when the moment has passed.
At Tembusu College, love speaks in hushed tones over dining hall tables. It is in the way someone invites you for a meal or when someone invites you to sit with them when you’re eating alone. It is the way someone offers you their meal enhancements, knowing you love it just a little more than they do. It is in the little care packages left at your doorstep on a morning when the world feels too heavy.
Love is the friend who remembers you have an exam coming up and asks, “How’s your revision coming along?” even if they, too, are drowning in deadlines. It’s in the chalked doodles on your door, inside jokes only a few would understand. It’s in the way your friends celebrate your hobbies—cheering you on when your confidence falters, showing up for every small victory like it’s their own. It’s in the instinctive way they slow their steps when you’re exhausted, making it seem as if they, too, just want to take their own time.
Love is knowing someone has had a rough day without them saying a word and sitting beside them anyway, just to remind them that loneliness does not exist where care does.
Sometimes, love is giving. Other times, it is received. It’s the way your friend chuckles at your terrible jokes – not because they’re actually funny, but because they know you need comfort. It is the way people go out of their way to support you, offering unprompted yet genuine words of comfort without expectation, without asking for anything in return. It is the way they show up – not just when it’s convenient, but when it’s needed.
So, love is not just the butterflies or the poetry in grand moments. It is not the spectacular, but the steady. The mundane. The unnoticed. Love is in the occasional check-ins, the small talks, the smiles exchanged in passing. It is the quiet warmth of knowing that in this vast, indifferent world, someone cares enough to stay.
Because love is, after all, that which you give willingly.
puffy cheeks by Anonymous
it’s Friday the thirteenth, just got out of therapy
but today won’t be a miserable one.
we meet at your favourite mall
walked into the Korean restaurant, your eyes lit up.
we talked about the weather and our dreams
university life, kids and everything as it seemed
my favourite part was the arcade, you beat me at the dance machine
you felt like home.
it all fell into place, jokes galore
“you’re smiling so hard, aren’t your cheeks sore?”
little did she know, my cheekbones were hurting.
not out of agony,
not out of grief.
it was liberation.
your kindness thawed the icy recesses of my heart.
the everglow that you radiate, it keeps me going.
Can we ever be more than Friday Friends?
Photo by the Author
what were you saying again? by xuan wei
class ends, eventually.
everyone shuffles out of the door, but we don’t talk at all as we walk. this is the witching hour, the test of spirit. if you listen closely, you might just hear destiny forming like the morning vapour on your window, and infinite futures evaporating from reach.
but we walk and we shuffle. listen again. destiny built on a house of cards. we walk, hands in our pockets. the wind from a hastened step, the vibration from a goodbye, a beat from a butterfly; anything at all to blow the house down.
listen. hear nothing. because i say nothing, and our distance widens. the droplets crystallise, it’s hard to see out the window. in the corner, unfrozen, i still see the silhouette turn around to face me.
then i heard my name called. no, fate wasn’t calling. it was not destiny, not god, not my instinct, not foresight nor a time traveller. and not the silhouette, no, she probably doesn’t even know my name.
the voice tapped on my shoulder because i hadn’t answered it. it was a friend from the same class.
my mouth moved but my eyes refused. i say something just to keep him at bay.
the shadow remained in the corner of the window because my eyes hadn’t moved. but alas, i saw her turn back away.
Ruminations by Anonymous
And so I’m cutting thorns off the roses in the half-darkness of my room. Sun is not yet up; I wonder how long this will take. Nobody to ask because everyone’s still asleep.
I don’t even know why I am doing this. But she’s coming over later, and I know that flowers will make her happy.
Heck, what is love even? how can I say, I love you, when I don’t even know what it means? That’s not responsible. And if she asks, what do you love about me, what do I even say? I could say it’s her quiet self-assuredness which I so admire; or her hopeful idealism towards this (desolate) world; but aren’t these just concepts? And is to tie one’s love to a reason not to make one’s love contingent? The Daodejing says: “True words are not beautiful. Beautiful words are not true.” If I say, I love her always – even with death inevitable – then am I not just lying?
“can I chalk your room when I come over next week?” she’d texted.
“YES OF COURSE.”
“okay, but i’ve got to think abt what to write first.”
But once the Chinese-New-Year break ends, she’s flying back to complete her studies. How is this even worth it, babydear? For every moment we meet, we spend another ten apart. Our relationship leads to attachment; suffering happens when one is separated from one’s attachments; therefore, our relationship leads to repeated suffering every time she leaves.
I don’t buy gifts for her, because I don’t support consumerism. I don’t have a cute nickname for her, because it is just too clichéd. I can’t spend as much time with her as she wants, because of my schedule that I must abide by. She likes Taylor Swift, but the only band I listen to is too explicit to be named. They say love should be selfless, but I am still so attached to my ideals. Also, if hypothetically speaking, she leaves me for someone who makes her happier, my world might end. My love is not as selfless as I would like.
Such are the thoughts that swirl through my head as I tie up the bouquet. I wonder if she’ll like it? It’s 9.20am now and I’m gonna have to rush to class. Can’t wait to see her later.
***
I’m glad she liked the flowers. I didn’t know it would make her so happy. Now she’s gone home, and I’m standing outside my room door, thinking – dammit, we forgot about the chalking! But I guess it’s for the better; I’d rather her messages remain private.
And so I go back into my solitary room, close my door, check to make sure she’s left nothing behind. I wonder if she’s home safe. Wonder if she actually liked the flowers; wonder if she enjoyed the food. And then I turn around – and there it is, that little scribble; she’s caught me by surprise. And I’m laughing; and my ruminations are no more – for, on the inner side of my door, in yellow chalk, are lyrics from my favourite band:
and it’s just as good
as I knew it would be
❤️<signed>
Photo by the Author
human by Judd Siow
we often do stupid things for love
we cry, we claw, we plead
go to the ends of the Earth
immolate ourselves
mould ourselves into our “ideal” forms
all to seek validation from the ones we love
That’s why they say “love is war” isn’t it?
a war in our heads.
and that’s what makes love
human.
Ponta Da Piedade, Lagos, Portugal. Photo by Judd Siow
Looking Up by Jeron Sia
Photo by Jishnu Radhakrishnan. Retrieved from pexels
“I love you for the way you are.”
A sentiment that proclaims the perfect state of romantic love. It is no coincidence that the lyrics of chart-toppers (think Bruno Mars, One Direction) contain this idea. The thought that somebody could love me in spite of the blemishes of my character, the imperfections in my craft, the brusque manner of my speaking and the standoffish exterior I present seemed preposterous.
In my mind, I am an effigy of an ideal self, and I am a learning sculptor who has vowed to polish my craft. Chasing this ideal begets loneliness’ pursuit, for the higher I lift the pedestal, the more I discount my current self; in medias res. Placing distance between who I am and who I wanted to be meant projecting my merits into the future, abandoning the present. That is why, I ask everyone around me to tilt their head skywards, towards a perfect limestone replica.
Hence, nobody, myself included, gazes at who I am now.
“I love you just the way you are.”
But then comes my partner, who picks up the truism, turns towards me and repeats it, in earnest. Her eyes do not search upwards, they pierce straight into me. Pointing towards the top of the plinth, I plead to distract her from this imperfect sculpture, but her adamant gaze remains steadfast.
So, I return the eye contact, and in her irises I find not judgement, but affection. I find not signs of abandonment, but acceptance. She is not looking at the pristine or the unblemished. No, she watches me sharpen my chisel and burnish the marble.
It is a mundane process, one which she is willing to sit through for me.
“I love you because of the way you are.”
Well, we appreciate others’ beauty in compensation for that which we are impervious to within ourselves. I realise that I view her in the same manner she views me. I love her because of, not despite, her imperfections, as I love her for nothing but her, for that idiosyncratic, indescribable essence. That essence, which may only be revealed in observing pursuits of self-fulfilment, in watching one blemished, speckled and cracked effigy being sculpted after another.
That’s why gazing into each other’s eyes feels so special.
For once, we aren’t looking up.
Go The Distance by Eli Stewart
I’d thought that love was a force that naturally brought people together, but distance always got in the way for me.
April 2020 and I counted the cars going down Crawford Street, the few stars in the sky, and the hours until we parted. We knew it was time when we watched the last bus go by. I watched them walk away, an inkblot clad in silver jewellery growing smaller and smaller. I stood and did nothing as the space between us grew larger and larger.
March 2021 and I would run off from our friends in the canteen, finding each other at the old stone bench behind the tennis courts; a space only we knew. A brush of our fingers on the bench became my head on their shoulder at a party. Like the smoke sifting in the air between us, we moved closer. This time, I’d closed the physical space between us.
On the train, I noticed a stain on January 2020’s earring, a blemish on the red-felt heart brushing her jawbone. I could, and should, have said something, but I didn’t think it would have changed anything. A bad habit that stuck, and ultimately spelled ruin for our brief romance. I bit my tongue one, two, three, way too many times.
I let the words flow freely when I met June 2022. Apologies and confessions and hopes came spilling out. Remorse spoken alongside resolve to do better. Silence made way for truths uttered. No more tongue-biting.
February 2022 bade goodbye to me from the steps leading to their flat. Pasta and wine fuelled a long night of conversation. We’d acknowledged that our attentions were divided, that no amount of closeness or truthfulness could overcome our inability to focus on each other, to see each other.
February 2017 and I traded Valentines playlists on the breakwater: curated, tailored, and highly focused collections of music that spoke for us. The songs closed the distance. The care poured into choosing each one a mark of intention. In moving consciously and attentively, closeness and truthfulness follow naturally.
I’d thought that love was a force that naturally brought people together, that compelled honesty, that made way for understanding. But Love is a verb: an effort to close the gap and allow for vulnerability. An action. To see and be seen.
Sinus by Wesley Leong
Unzipping the cold, pristine-white covers off the cadaver, I placed my left hand on the silent mentor before me and raised my right in attention, solemnly reciting the cadaveric oath. My anatomy professor tells us that these cadavers will teach us more than life itself. Standing before this body, now still and silent, I am reminded of what it once was—what we all are. More than sinew and bones, more than a heart that beats: we are the sum of the love we give and receive.
I have known life not just in the pulse beneath my fingertips but in the rhythms of the people around me—their laughter, their silences, and the words that tether us to one another. Love is not only felt in the body, in the warmth of an embrace or the cadence of a heartbeat, but in the moments that shape us: the voices that call our names, the quiet gestures of care, the spaces we make for one another. I have fallen in love and out of love; bickered, argued bitterly; advocated, passionately debated, lightheartedly chatted; consoled, complained, and when all else failed, laughed at everything in good spirit. Love is not just presence—it lingers, persists in memory, in echoes of conversations long after they are spoken. It is what remains, even after breath ceases.
Yet, as I looked at the elderly gentleman before me, I could not help but wonder—who had he loved? Who had once traced the lines of his face with their fingertips, memorized his voice, waited for his return? What stories would he have told me, had he still possessed the breath to do so? The body before me is no longer defined by its functions—by its breathing, by its beating heart—but by what it meant in the lives it touched. As I zipped the covers back over him, I felt an unexpected tenderness settle within me. Walking out of the anatomy hall, my glasses fogged up from the shift in temperature, and I inhaled deeply—aware, more than ever, of the simple miracle of breath, of life still being lived.
Perhaps it is the space between each heartbeat in which we feel truly alive. Between lub and dub, between each inhale and exhale, we choose where to place our love. Love does not exist merely in the body—it transcends it. It is in the stories we tell, in the moments we remember, in the way we continue to hold others close long after they have left us. In between those breaths, we create song, we create rhythms that appease the heartbeat, and we say words that matter to others.
And in that in-between, in the fragile, fleeting pauses, we do not merely exist—we love.
Elegy for the Lover by Davina Sitoh
i have loved with the blood of my being,
i have moved the skies to weeping,
i have pulled my love through the depths of hell, heavy and laden it was
i have laid myself upon the altar,
drunk its poison, drowned in slumber,
i have wreathed myself in flowers,
i have put on my burial shroud
**
i have danced with stars in moonlit graves,
scattered tears like glass across the waves
i have woven myself into ancient grief
i have cried and railed and fought and shrieked
i have stood upon that Dante’s precipice
known death then like a marbled edifice
i saw love and terror entwined beneath me
i knew loss and loathing and life and misery
**
i have carved your name into the seams
the skin of my hands, the ridges beneath
i have scorched myself in phoenix flame
rose again, only to burn the same
(how much more will this take from me)
(how much more must i die to live)
i am made and remade, endlessly
i am floating, lost, adrift at sea
**
(i am tired, i am tired. oh love, i am exhausted, please,
love won’t you let me, enter that eternal sleep?
**
i wish to unburden myself of all this grief.
all i do is bleed and bleed,
and still cannot rid you of me.
**
i am sorry,
i am sorry,
that you were made
to be loved by me.)
**
i have fallen into Mímir’s well,
emerged with stories i cannot tell
i have built cathedrals from my bones,
raised spires from the pain alone
i have grasped the face of god and saw
myself reflected in its maw
i am become both prayer and the priest
both supplicant and the sacred beast
**
i have written epochs in my veins
and found all paths lead back again
to altar steps enshroud in fire
to the glance back, the salt-stone pyre
though still i bleed, still i remain:
where breath and being
begin again.
The Other Half by Zayden
In Plato’s Symposium, there was an idea that humans were originally powerful double beings, either two males, two females, or a male and female joined together. Zeus, fearing their power, split them in half, creating the humans we know today. Henceforth, everyone sought for their other half to be whole again. This is an enduring image. You probably resonated with it, that love is this deep-seated longing for our “other half”, for the “one”, the “soulmate”.
Reality is far messier, for love is paradoxical. It is profoundly universal yet deeply personal. We resonate with the idea of an “other half,” yet our partner often comes in unexpected forms—the ideals we envision for a partner may not align with who we enter a relationship with. Love, which I will talk about in the romantic sense in this piece, eludes neat definitions.
Love is a feeling—affection, warmth, appreciation, excitement. It can feel freeing, expansive ,and time melting. And it’s not just that either, for it can stir anger, frustration, sadness, and disappointment.
Love is embodied. Certain features draw us—a smile, eyes, a body, distinct styles. We hold hands and have moments of physical intimacy. Still, we can love without physical intimacy. We can love someone far away, like in a long-distance relationship. We can fall in love with a fictional character, and like in the film “Her,” we may even fall in love with an AI one day.
Love is a risk. To love is to open ourselves up to the possibility of deep hurt. Love asks for faith, for it is precisely within the vulnerability that lies the possibility of a deep connection.
And to love is a choice. Feelings may waver, conflicts may arise, pain and differences inevitably manifest but love endures when we choose it—when we choose them. It is in choosing, again and again, to stay, to listen, to grow, that love takes shape.
Perhaps, then, a soulmate is not found, but made. Not a predestined fate, but a co-creation—woven together in the choices we make, showing up despite weariness, risking the hurt that comes with trust, holding on when things get hard. We come to love not in the absence of imperfection, but through and despite it.
Love is not a static truth then. With the choices we make, comes feelings, risks, embodiments, faith—a continuous becoming.
May you choose love. Happy Valentine’s.
Photo from flickr, Giuseppe Milo
Banner & Cover Photos from Unsplash