Harpreet Chhachhia

The Quiet Tiredness of Love

Published on February 14, 2026 by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

This Valentine’s Day, I bought clothes for a partner. I took both out for dinner. I brought them flowers. I did what I always do — I made the day deliberate, visible, celebratory.

What I received was a card from A. Inside it, he had written only two names: mine and his. Nothing more than what the printed card already said.

There was no added line. No awkward attempt at poetry. No private joke. No scribbled sentiment.

And I realised something I have known for years but rarely allow myself to articulate: I am the romantic one. I am the initiator. I am the one who leans in first for a kiss. I am the one who asks for intimacy. I am the one who creates the moment and then steps into it, hoping someone will meet me there.

This is not a complaint. It is a truth.

I have seen straight men forget birthdays, forget anniversaries, forget tenderness altogether. In comparison, I know I have been fortunate. I have partners who are kind. Partners who are steady. Partners who chose me. That matters.

But romance is a different language. And in that language, I often feel like I am speaking alone.

The past month has been relentless. Zach’s illness. Zach’s death. Now Xena’s illness. Fear has become a permanent hum in the background of my days. Grief sits at the foot of the bed.

Both my partners know this has been hard. They have seen it. They have lived beside it. And yet there has been no unexpected embrace, no quiet pulling into arms without being asked, no coming into bed and simply holding me because they sensed I was tired.

That is all any of us want, isn’t it?
To be seen without having to announce ourselves.
To be understood without having to explain the wound.

Instead, Valentine’s felt like another day suspended between fear and memory.

And then I feel small for even thinking this way. Because the world outside is burning. There are horrors unfolding as I write this. There is cruelty without accountability. There are griefs that dwarf my own.

Who am I to long for a kiss when there is so much suffering?

But feelings do not obey global hierarchies. Pain does not queue politely behind larger catastrophes. My problems are still my problems. My loneliness, even inside love, is still mine.

I no longer have a wide circle of friends. I have my mother. I have my sister. I have my partners, who are my chosen family. And having once been hurt by chosen family, I carry a quiet fear of losing again.

Perhaps that fear makes me hold back from saying, “I am tired.”
Perhaps it makes me soften my needs so they do not feel like demands.

But tonight, I will say it gently.

I am tired.
Not of love — never of love — but of always being the one who reaches first.

I do not need grand gestures. I do not need theatrics. I only need to be gathered sometimes without asking.

Valentine’s Day is supposed to celebrate romance. For me, it became a reminder that even inside devotion, one can feel a small, private ache.

And still — I choose love.
I choose my family.
I choose to stay.

But I also choose to acknowledge that even the one who gives the flowers sometimes wants to receive them without having to hint.

That is not selfish.
That is human.
And perhaps that, too, is a form of courage.

If a door closes, somewhere a window opens.

Published on February 8, 2026 by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

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.