{"id":7363,"date":"2025-02-13T18:49:03","date_gmt":"2025-02-13T10:49:03","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/tembusu3.nus.edu.sg\/treehouse\/?p=7363"},"modified":"2025-09-25T11:52:52","modified_gmt":"2025-09-25T03:52:52","slug":"what-is-love-really-an-anthology","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/tembusu3.nus.edu.sg\/treehouse\/2025\/02\/what-is-love-really-an-anthology\/","title":{"rendered":"What is Love, Really: An Anthology"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

confessions of love by Anonymous<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Photo by the Author<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

love is\u2026 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

a lot of people say love is hard to explain, but at its core it\u2019s pretty simple to me. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

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. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

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\u2019ve loved after we\u2019ve lost. the four letter word \u2018miss\u2019 as a symptom of its root cause \u2018love\u2019, i miss you \u2014 is saying i love you, but i am afraid that it is too late. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

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. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

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\u2019s day love is in being. happy valentine\u2019s day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Love, in the Little Things by Jun Wei Cheow<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

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\u2014the spaces between words, the quiet sacrifices no one asks for, the presence that lingers even when the moment has passed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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\u2019re 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Love is the friend who remembers you have an exam coming up and asks, \u201cHow\u2019s your revision coming along?\u201d<\/em> even if they, too, are drowning in deadlines. It\u2019s in the chalked doodles on your door, inside jokes only a few would understand. It\u2019s in the way your friends celebrate your hobbies\u2014cheering you on when your confidence falters, showing up for every small victory like it\u2019s their own. It\u2019s in the instinctive way they slow their steps when you\u2019re exhausted, making it seem as if they, too, just want to take their own time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sometimes, love is giving. Other times, it is received. It’s the way your friend chuckles at your terrible jokes – not because they\u2019re 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\u2019s convenient, but when it\u2019s needed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Because love is, after all, that which you give willingly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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puffy cheeks by Anonymous<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

it\u2019s Friday the thirteenth, just got out of therapy<\/p>\n\n\n\n

but today won\u2019t be a miserable one.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

we meet at your favourite mall<\/p>\n\n\n\n

walked into the Korean restaurant, your eyes lit up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

we talked about the weather and our dreams<\/p>\n\n\n\n

university life, kids and everything as it seemed<\/p>\n\n\n\n

my favourite part was the arcade, you beat me at the dance machine<\/p>\n\n\n\n

you felt like home.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

it all fell into place, jokes galore<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cyou\u2019re smiling so hard, aren\u2019t your cheeks sore?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

little did she know, my cheekbones were hurting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

not out of agony,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

not out of grief.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

it was liberation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

your kindness thawed the icy recesses of my heart.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

the everglow that you radiate, it keeps me going.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Can we ever be more than Friday Friends?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Photo by the Author<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

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what were you saying again? by xuan wei<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

class ends, eventually. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

everyone shuffles out of the door, but we don\u2019t 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. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

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. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

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. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

the voice tapped on my shoulder because i hadn\u2019t answered it. it was a friend from the same class. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

my mouth moved but my eyes refused. i say something just to keep him at bay.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

the shadow remained in the corner of the window because my eyes hadn’t moved. but alas, i saw her turn back away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Ruminations by Anonymous <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

And so I\u2019m 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\u2019s still asleep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I don\u2019t even know why I am doing<\/em> this. But she\u2019s coming over later, and I know that flowers will make her happy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Heck, what is love even? how can I say, I love you<\/em>, when I don\u2019t even know what it means? That\u2019s not responsible. And if she asks, what do you love about me<\/em>, what do I even say? I could say it\u2019s her quiet self-assuredness which I so admire; or her hopeful idealism towards this (desolate) world; but aren\u2019t these just concepts<\/em>? And is to tie one\u2019s love to a reason not to make one\u2019s love contingent<\/em>? The Daodejing <\/em>says: \u201cTrue words are not beautiful. Beautiful words are not true.\u201d If I say, I love her always<\/em> \u2013 even with death inevitable \u2013 then am I not just lying?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201ccan I chalk your room when I come over next week?\u201d she\u2019d texted.<\/em>
<\/em> \u201cYES OF COURSE.\u201d<\/em>
<\/em>\u201cokay, but i\u2019ve got to think abt what to write first.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

But once the Chinese-New-Year break ends, she\u2019s 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\u2019s attachments; therefore, our relationship leads to repeated suffering every time she leaves.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I don\u2019t buy gifts for her, because I don\u2019t support consumerism. I don\u2019t have a cute nickname for her, because it is just too clich\u00e9d. I can\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Such are the thoughts that swirl through my head as I tie up the bouquet. I wonder if she\u2019ll like it? It\u2019s 9.20am now and I\u2019m gonna have to rush to class. Can\u2019t wait to see her later.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

***<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019m glad she liked the flowers. I didn\u2019t know it would make her so happy. Now she\u2019s gone home, and I\u2019m standing outside my room door, thinking \u2013 dammit, we forgot about the chalking! <\/em>But I guess it\u2019s for the better; I\u2019d rather her messages remain private.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And so I go back into my solitary room, close my door, check to make sure she\u2019s left nothing behind. I wonder if she\u2019s home safe. Wonder if she actually liked the flowers; wonder if she enjoyed the food. And then I turn around \u2013 and there it is, that little scribble; she\u2019s caught me by surprise. And I\u2019m laughing; and my ruminations are no more \u2013 for, on the inner side of my door, in yellow chalk, are lyrics from my favourite band:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

and it\u2019s just as good
as I knew it would be
❤️<signed><\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/a><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Photo by the Author<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

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human by Judd Siow <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

we often do stupid things for love<\/p>\n\n\n\n

we cry, we claw, we plead<\/p>\n\n\n\n

go to the ends of the Earth<\/p>\n\n\n\n

immolate ourselves<\/p>\n\n\n\n

mould ourselves into our \u201cideal\u201d forms<\/p>\n\n\n\n

all to seek validation from the ones we love<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That’s why they say \u201clove is war\u201d isn\u2019t it?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

a war in our heads.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

and that\u2019s what makes love<\/p>\n\n\n\n

human. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Ponta Da Piedade, Lagos, Portugal. Photo by Judd Siow<\/em> <\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Looking Up by Jeron Sia<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/a><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Photo by Jishnu Radhakrishnan. Retrieved from <\/em>pexels<\/em><\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n

“I love you for the way you are.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hence, nobody, myself included, gazes at who I am now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“I love you just the way you are.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It is a mundane process, one which she is willing to sit through for me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“I love you because of the way you are.”<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That’s why gazing into each other’s eyes feels so special.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For once, we aren’t looking up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Go The Distance by Eli Stewart <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019d thought that love was a force that naturally brought people together, but distance always got in the way for me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

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\u2019d closed the physical space between us. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

On the train, I noticed a stain on January 2020\u2019s earring, a blemish on the red-felt heart brushing her jawbone. I could, and should, have said something, but I didn\u2019t 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. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

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. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

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. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019d 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. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Sinus by Wesley Leong <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

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\u2014what 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I have known life not just in the pulse beneath my fingertips but in the rhythms of the people around me\u2014their 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\u2014it lingers, persists in memory, in echoes of conversations long after they are spoken. It is what remains, even after breath ceases.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Yet, as I looked at the elderly gentleman before me, I could not help but wonder\u2014who 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\u2014by its breathing, by its beating heart\u2014but 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\u2014aware, more than ever, of the simple miracle of breath, of life still being lived.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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\u2014it 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. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

And in that in-between, in the fragile, fleeting pauses, we do not merely exist\u2014we love.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Elegy for the Lover by Davina Sitoh<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

i have loved with the blood of my being,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

i have moved the skies to weeping,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

i have pulled my love through the depths of hell, heavy and laden it was <\/p>\n\n\n\n

i have laid myself upon the altar,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

drunk its poison, drowned in slumber, <\/p>\n\n\n\n

i have wreathed myself in flowers,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

i have put on my burial shroud<\/p>\n\n\n\n

**<\/p>\n\n\n\n

i have danced with stars in moonlit graves, <\/p>\n\n\n\n

scattered tears like glass across the waves <\/p>\n\n\n\n

i have woven myself into ancient grief<\/p>\n\n\n\n

i have cried and railed and fought and shrieked<\/p>\n\n\n\n

i have stood upon that Dante\u2019s precipice<\/p>\n\n\n\n

known death then like a marbled edifice<\/p>\n\n\n\n

i saw love and terror entwined beneath me<\/p>\n\n\n\n

i knew loss and loathing and life and misery<\/p>\n\n\n\n

**<\/p>\n\n\n\n

i have carved your name into the seams <\/p>\n\n\n\n

the skin of my hands, the ridges beneath<\/p>\n\n\n\n

i have scorched myself in phoenix flame<\/p>\n\n\n\n

rose again, only to burn the same<\/p>\n\n\n\n

(how much more will this take from me)<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

(how much more must i die to live)<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

i am made and remade, endlessly<\/p>\n\n\n\n

i am floating, lost, adrift at sea<\/p>\n\n\n\n

**<\/p>\n\n\n\n

(i am tired, <\/em>i am tired. oh love, i am exhausted, please,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

love won\u2019t you let me, enter that eternal sleep?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

**<\/p>\n\n\n\n

i wish to unburden myself of all this grief.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

all i do is bleed and bleed,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

and still cannot rid you of me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

**<\/p>\n\n\n\n

i am sorry, <\/p>\n\n\n\n

i am sorry, <\/p>\n\n\n\n

that you were made <\/p>\n\n\n\n

to be loved by me.)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

**<\/p>\n\n\n\n

i have fallen into M\u00edmir\u2019s well,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

emerged with stories i cannot tell<\/p>\n\n\n\n

i have built cathedrals from my bones,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

raised spires from the pain alone<\/p>\n\n\n\n

i have grasped the face of god and saw<\/p>\n\n\n\n

myself reflected in its maw <\/p>\n\n\n\n

i am become both prayer and the priest<\/p>\n\n\n\n

both supplicant and the sacred beast\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

**<\/p>\n\n\n\n

i have written epochs in my veins<\/p>\n\n\n\n

and found all paths lead back again<\/p>\n\n\n\n

to altar steps enshroud in fire<\/p>\n\n\n\n

to the glance back, the salt-stone pyre<\/p>\n\n\n\n

though still i bleed, still i<\/em> remain:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

where breath and being <\/p>\n\n\n\n

begin again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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The Other Half by Zayden<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

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”. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

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\u2014the 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Love is a feeling\u2014affection, 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Love is embodied. Certain features draw us\u2014a 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

And to love is a choice. Feelings may waver, conflicts may arise, pain and differences inevitably manifest but love endures when we choose it\u2014when we choose them. It is in choosing, again and again, to stay, to listen, to grow, that love takes shape.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Perhaps, then, a soulmate is not found, but made. Not a predestined fate, but a co-creation\u2014woven 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. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Love is not a static truth then. With the choices we make, comes feelings,  risks, embodiments, faith\u2014a continuous becoming. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

May you choose love. Happy Valentine’s.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/a><\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Photo from <\/em>flickr<\/em><\/a>, Giuseppe Milo<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Banner & Cover Photos from Unsplash<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

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This is the second of a two-part Valentine’s Special. In this collection of stories from various Tembusians, each offers their own perspective on what love means to them.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":150,"featured_media":7366,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-7363","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized","publication_type-anthology","theme-identity-the-self","theme-psychology","scope-others","flavour-contemplative","flavour-heartwarming","flavour-intense","flavour-sombre"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/tembusu3.nus.edu.sg\/treehouse\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7363","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/tembusu3.nus.edu.sg\/treehouse\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/tembusu3.nus.edu.sg\/treehouse\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tembusu3.nus.edu.sg\/treehouse\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/150"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tembusu3.nus.edu.sg\/treehouse\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=7363"}],"version-history":[{"count":17,"href":"https:\/\/tembusu3.nus.edu.sg\/treehouse\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7363\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":7399,"href":"https:\/\/tembusu3.nus.edu.sg\/treehouse\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7363\/revisions\/7399"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tembusu3.nus.edu.sg\/treehouse\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/7366"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/tembusu3.nus.edu.sg\/treehouse\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=7363"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tembusu3.nus.edu.sg\/treehouse\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=7363"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/tembusu3.nus.edu.sg\/treehouse\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=7363"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}