by keertan somasundaram
edited by ashley yeung and alloe mak

My roommate is in love.

I know this is a fact—whenever he talks to or about her, his accent gets a bit stronger. 

He’s constantly on the phone with her, whether we’re in our dorm or walking to the dining hall; his bulky headphones stay on to ensure he doesn’t miss a word she says.

She comes to visit us quite often, which is, in all respects, really sweet, especially considering the fact that we’re in winter, where the cold makes your toes numb and ears red.

Speaking of the weather, no matter how long I might rattle on about it, this is by far and above my favourite season. I’ve got into great arguments with friends about this opinion.

The cold is nice, but what it invites is what makes winter wondrous for me. 

Although it might seem ironic since we layer innumerable sets of clothing on top of one another so as not to freeze, I believe winter strips us down to our most authentic selves.

In a need to stay warm, we become more vulnerable, more accepting, and more kind.

Every day this season, I end up learning a new thing about the people I love. Or, I meet a person who might end up being one of those people.

I listen. Genuinely and wholeheartedly. To topics I have no interest in and ones that I can easily bond over, to stories relating to everything I’ve ever gone through featuring people I’ve never met, and to advice from people who are as lost as I am.

In the winter, I discover something new every single day.

Even though I love this exploration, the abrasive weather also gives me an excuse to just lay in my room.

I read old books, watch new movies, and listen to all types of music. I try to write, get bored, write something snooty, and then fall asleep. 

Pretending I’m smarter than I am, I make connections with art that people centuries ago already wrote about and act like I’m alone in this realization. Even though I understand this to be a textbook example of pretentiousness, every time it happens it doesn’t feel any less profound.

Despite this soulful isolation and below-zero temperatures, I still make an effort to see my friends. I like to think that that’s proof of the love I hold for them.

We get kicked out of parking garages by security who let us skate out.

We take shots out of bathroom cups meant for mouthwash.

We complain about how cold it is but still walk down the same street together.

I hold an incredible love for the people in my life, but more than that, I love that I’m able to love these people. 

Like a piece of art that you know everyone would probably connect with, but that you hold in an exclusive place, firm in the ideal that your connection with it is uniquely special. I remain eternally grateful for the personal love that I’m able to feel for the people, things, and places in my life.

I love my roommate who’s in love.

I love long talks on couches and rooftops.

I love old books, new movies, and all music.

I’m in love. And I don’t think it’s ever going to end.