Hearts Still Care

I have been thinking about names.

Not the grand, poetic kind — not the kind etched into monuments or whispered in mythology — but the ordinary, daily way a name is spoken across a room. The way it lands. The way it either gathers you in or leaves you standing alone.

Both my partners always call me by my name. Harpreet.

Never a pet name.
Never a softening.
Never a “jaan”, or “babe”, or “hon”.

Just Harpreet.

And I have begun to notice how that feels.

I am generous with endearments. I use them easily, instinctively. To me, affection spills into language. It becomes something playful, something warm. A word can carry touch. A nickname can feel like an embrace.

But when my own name is spoken — plainly, consistently — I sometimes feel as though I am being addressed rather than held.

There is nothing wrong with my name. I love my name. It carries my history, my survival, my pride. It is the name I fought to stand tall within. It is the name I claimed when I chose to live honestly.

And yet, in intimacy, something inside me longs for softness.

A name with an added warmth.
A word that belongs only to us.

Perhaps this is trivial. There are greater crises in the world. There are real horrors unfolding every day. To speak about pet names and tenderness can feel indulgent, even small.

But emotional needs do not scale themselves according to global tragedy. The heart does not say, “There are worse things, so be quiet.”

It simply feels what it feels.

When someone always uses your full name, it can create a subtle distance. A formality. As though you are perpetually being called into attention, rather than being drawn into closeness.

I realise this is not universal. Some people express love through action, through provision, through steadiness. Not everyone grew up in homes where affection was verbalised. Not everyone is fluent in the language of endearment.

But I am.

And when I give what I instinctively speak — softness, warmth, teasing tenderness — and it is not mirrored back, I sometimes feel like the only one lighting candles in a room that is already bright enough for everyone else.

Perhaps the issue is not the name itself. Perhaps it is what I associate with it:
That I am always the one reaching first.
Always the one leaning in.
Always the one initiating intimacy.

A name without adornment can begin to sound like routine. And routine, in love, can sometimes blur into invisibility.

I do not want grand gestures. I do not want theatrics. I do not need declarations shouted from rooftops. I only want to feel, occasionally, that I am not the sole architect of tenderness.

That someone might call me something that melts rather than summons.

That my name might sometimes be wrapped in softness.

There is power in being known by one’s true name. But there is also intimacy in being given a name that exists only in love.

Perhaps this is not about linguistics at all. Perhaps it is about reciprocity.

To be called Harpreet is to be recognised.
To be called something tender is to be cherished.

And sometimes, the difference between those two is the quiet space where longing lives.

There are friendships that arrive with explanations — shared histories, common circles, obvious reasons.

And then there are the others.

The inexplicable ones.

The ones that simply happen.

As we move through life, we assume some people will always remain. Childhood teaches us permanence before it teaches us loss. And so, when certain relationships fall away — even the ones that once felt indestructible — we are left stunned, asking questions that have no real answers.

I remember, as a child, watching The Sound of Music repeatedly, the way one watches something when one is still learning how to understand the world. There is a line Julie Andrews speaks before she sings I Have Confidence in Me, a line that stayed with me long before I understood its weight: when God closes a door, somewhere He opens a window.

At the time, it felt comforting. As an adult, it feels accurate — though rarely gentle.

In 2023, a friendship of more than three decades ended. Poonam and I parted ways, and by September this year, it will be three years since we last spoke. Some endings are loud; others are simply quiet disappearances. This one left a dark, hollow space — not dramatic, but deeply felt.

And then, somewhere around that time — in 2022 — Christina entered my life.

There was no grand moment of arrival. No announcement. Just a slow, steady presence that began to matter.

She has her flaws, as we all do. She is not perfect, nor does she pretend to be. But she is kind-hearted, good-natured, resilient — a woman who has stood her ground against life and come out standing. When she began calling me her brother — even though she has brothers — it wasn’t a title I took lightly. It felt earned, grown into, not claimed.

I remember telling her once that I was proud to be her friend. I didn’t realise then that this simple truth would become the foundation of something deeper — a bond that has lasted, quietly, faithfully, till today.

I don’t know what the future holds. None of us ever do. But I know this: when Zach was ill, when Xena is unwell, Christina has always been a phone call away. I don’t often ask for help — I am fortunate to have a loving family, a home filled with people who show up for me — my mother, my sister, my brother-in-law, my partners. I have never lacked love.

And yet, there is something profoundly moving about knowing that outside your home, there are people who would still come if you called. Few, perhaps — but real.

Christina is one of those people.

This month, as I immersed the ashes of my boy — one of the hardest moments of my life — she was there. She didn’t have to be. It was a holiday weekend, yes. But she stayed. From afternoon till night. She sat with my grief without trying to fix it.

She was also here on the fourth day after his passing. A weekday. She took time out of her life to sit beside mine.

That is presence.

And presence is everything.

I do not measure my relationships by intellect, worldliness, wealth, or accomplishment. These have never mattered to me. What matters is this: Who shows up? Who stays? Who listens? Who holds silence without discomfort?

As the writer David Whyte once said, “Friendship is not a passive state, it is a covenant of attention.”

And Christina has paid attention — to my pain, my life, my becoming.

Family, I have learnt, is not always about blood. It is about those who choose to stand beside you when the ground gives way. The poet Khalil Gibran wrote, “Let there be spaces in your togetherness,” and yet, there are moments when the space closes — when someone steps closer simply because you need them to.

Life is loss.

Life is grief.

But life is also the quiet joy of finding kindred hearts as we move forward — not replacements for what was lost, but companions for what lies ahead.

Some doors do close.

Some windows open.

And some, mercifully, learn to stay.

This is for Christina — my sister by choice, my family by presence — and for the reminder that even in mourning, life still offers us hands to hold.