On a random midnight, a highly intoxicated me decided to continue watching ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’ all by myself. I don’t know how it went.

When Audrey, with all her perfection and poise, grace and grandeur, says, “People don’t belong to people,” I had a sudden rush of awakening. It was something I had been repeating to myself over and over for a very long time. When all of my childhood friendships ended over petty arguments, when my earliest relationship made me question commitment, when my teenage anger propelled me away from my family, when I ended something I thought was my ‘forever’, when isolation was strangling me in early university days, and when irrational hopes of leaning on to someone faded away by my own quest of pragmatism, I always whispered the same sentence to myself. “People don’t belong to people.” And ran away.

But like lies, hypocrisy is what has designed the pedestals of human existence. After all these years full of all these instances of somehow seeking someplace where someday I could find someone to settle with, yet somewhat running away eventually, I want to belong to someone.

I don’t know if this pursuit is romantic or just a reflection of how I want to fill the void inside my heart with companionship, but I really want to belong to someone.

When I wake up, I want to be pulled back to bed to celebrate moments of silence, minutes of inactivity, and breaths of absolute nothingness. I want that someone to caress my hair as I lay my head on his heart, foolishly counting every heartbeat echoing through my ears. I want to hear them repeatedly until I lose count and start counting until I finally fall asleep, or he decides to kiss me and start the day.

I want to cook for that someone. Not a grand meal because first, I lack the skill, and on a general note, I lack the will. I want to serve him just simple meals with delicious intentions. As I sit across the table and ask him how the food is, I want him to nod while gulping the food. Some days, I want him to make faces saying he hates it. Some days, I wish to see him smile because he likes the food. And some days, I’d prefer if he cooks.

I want him to send me memes at work which make me crack up even on stressful days. I want him to update me with contemporary news. I want him to talk about sensitive issues, sports, history, cars, dresses, food, basically anything. I want texts and pictures; I want political discourses; I want good music; I want hilarious jokes; I want random I love you texts; I also want him to shut up sometimes.

I wish to listen to music with him under fancy lights that I intend to project to our ceiling. I don’t want him to complain if he doesn’t like the music. I’d prefer, “How about this?” and he plays his song. I hope he knows my mood like the back of his hand. I hope he understands that there will be Lana Del Ray days, complete Eminem days, some AC/DC days, and some Billie Eilish days. Even on a day of complete sobriety, I hope he understands if I hammer our walls with party music. I hope he hums songs that I played to him before. I hope he pays attention to the lyrics I ask him to listen to. I hope he does not laugh if I cry to some songs.

I want to go on long walks with him or even cycle for hours. When I ask him to take pictures of me, I hope he agrees and takes good ones. I hope he acknowledges that photos are important to me because they seal my memories. I hope he understands that I want good memories, aesthetic memories, blurry memories, casual memories, candid memories, and all shades. I want every memory with him.

I want him to read things I would write for him and feel the things I wouldn’t be able to say out loud. I want him to come running to me if he feels down. I want him to find me, hug me, and tell me that he doesn’t feel good. I want him to stay in my arms until he feels better. I wish he acts tough if he feels he must, but not in a misogynistic way. I want him to accept that vulnerability isn’t gender-specific. I hope he knows that sensitivity doesn’t make you less strong.

I wish we could watch all kinds of movies together. We’d watch crime documentaries and period films, extraordinary action and jaw-dropping thrillers. But even if I suggest a hysterical rom-com, I hope he complies and doesn’t become outright dismissive.

I hope he tells me that he loves me. I hope I can hold him and say the silliest of things and he’d listen. I want him to take me seriously, but I also want him to be willing to make a complete fool of himself. I hope he takes up a lot of responsibilities, but I hope he knows when to let go. I want him to hold me close whenever he wants to and remind me how I belong to him.

I don’t care if people find us stupid, crazy, or dramatic; I want to be stupidly, crazily, and dramatically in love with him. I want him to claim me even after I am already his. I want every day to be new.

When I ask him to watch ‘Breakfast at Tiffany’s’, on a random midnight, cuddled up with coffee and candies, and Audrey says, “People don’t belong to people,” with the same magic, I want him to look at me and say, “Not you! You belong to me.”

I want him to hold that romantic, dreamy, unearthly gaze for a few seconds. After that, it’s up to him whether he decides to kiss me or crack up at the ultimate cringe. I wouldn’t care. I would have belonged to him anyways.

Dhungel is a journalism, mass communication, and English Literature student at St. Xavier’s College, Maitighar.