4:41 pm - blooming

The other month, my Literature class was reading The Picture of Dorian Gray, when my teacher encouraged us to pay attention to the “language of flowers.” It was one of those afternoons where I was giggly and giddy, unable to focus or sit still. My teacher said that in the Victorian era, flowers spoke for people, that a rose might mean love, while a lily symbolized purity or grief. I remember finding that strangely pretty. Even something as small as a flower can have meaning if you look deep enough.

But, as it often goes in classrooms when my mood is bubbly, my mind drifted elsewhere. My friend beside me must have been in the same restless mood, because we started talking about our favorite flowers (hers, lily of the valley; mine, peonies). Then, our conversation sidetracked into playing a game, saying "hello" in as many languages as we knew.

“Hola.”

“Ni Hao.”

“Hallo.”

“Bonjour.”

And so on, until the teacher gave us a concerned look.

Somewhere between “Ciao” and “Konnichiwa,” my friend randomly asked me, “What’s your love language?”

It was such an abrupt shift that I almost laughed. But I guess it makes sense. Flowers have a language. So do nations. So, perhaps, does love.

We pulled up a list of the five love languages: words of affirmation, quality time, receiving gifts, acts of service, and physical touch. I couldn’t choose just one. People are too fluid, too fickle for that. We decided to rank them instead, from least important to most important, because even “least important” doesn’t mean “unimportant.” Mine went like this: receiving gifts, acts of service, words of affirmation, physical touch, quality time.

Our conversation moved on to something about communist Smurfs. But at night, I lay in bed thinking about what “quality time” really means.

The more I thought, the more I realized that “quality time” isn’t just about the number of shared hours; it’s about the absorption of one another. My proximity to others is so deep that I begin to soak in the habits of others. I’ve started noticing how much of myself is borrowed from the people I love. The way I phrase certain things. The type of humor that makes me laugh now, though it didn’t before. Even my posture sometimes mirrors someone else’s. It’s almost eerie how much we become like the people we spend time with.

Sometimes that realization makes me wonder if anyone can be truly “authentically authentic.” We are, after all, a collection of borrowed gestures. A phrase from one friend, a habit from another. A laugh, an expression, a thought. Every person we love adds something to us.

I'm not quite sure what the answer to the authenticity question is, but I don't think it bears worrying. I'd be lucky to be similar to those I consider close friends. I think there's something quite beautiful about being a collage of every person whom I've spent time with, every person I've loved.