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.