Setting the Scene
I’m writing this with my knees folded beneath me on a concrete ledge by Sinninger Pond (the pond right beside Purdue’s Bell Tower). It’s my first night after my first real on-campus workday-three shifts back to back, nine hours total, that, to my own surprise, I actually enjoyed. I’d never stacked that much into one day before; the rhythm of tasks kept me absorbed, and when I finally clocked out, I felt oddly energized instead of drained.
The campus is very energetic tonight because Purdue has a football match, but the spot where I’m sitting is calm. I can still see crowds moving at a distance, though. I had wandered toward WALC for a study session, but Taste of India called my name; a takeout box of biryani and a small cup of raita later, I found my way here. The rice is still warm, laced with cardamom and cumin; the yogurt is cool against it. A couple sits diagonally across from me, sharing their own dinner under the faint glow of a distant lamp. Between bites, I glance up and the Bell Tower slices the night sky, its brick washed deep blue by the moonlight. The pond is still. Every ripple feels carefully placed.
“Photograph” by Ed Sheeran loops through my headphones-eight times and counting. It’s almost comical now, how the song resets before the last note fully fades. But there’s comfort in the repetition. It wraps around the scene like a soft blanket, making everything feel suspended in gentle amber. The air is cool enough to keep me awake, warm enough to keep me grounded. For once, my phone is more notebook than distraction.
Where I am drafting, I’m actually voice-typing. I hate looking at my phone too much, so I speak instead. The music pauses as I dictate and reflect-and I like it. I enjoy spending these small pockets of time with myself, thinking about things I wouldn’t otherwise in the noise of my life, just me, the biryani box, and the soft hum of campus after dark.
When I sit like this-music in my ears, dinner cooling in my lap-I find my mind drifting to my grandfather. For someone who never thought of himself as a “hug person,” he was one of the rare people I genuinely wanted to hold. I didn’t hug him as often as I should have, and he’s no longer here for me to change that.
There aren’t many people like him in my life, and the ones who are feel priceless. I wish I had lingered longer, stayed beside him for just a few more ordinary moments. That quiet regret has become a reminder to be present and to hold close the people I love while I still can.
Five Feet Apart
A few days ago I watched Five Feet Apart, and I haven’t gotten over it yet. The film follows two teenagers with cystic fibrosis who are forbidden to come within five feet of each other, even as they fall in love. The rule is simple: touch could transmit bacteria their bodies can’t handle. The consequence is brutal: love without contact.
There’s a line that lodged itself in my chest: “Human touch… our first form of communication. Safety, comfort, love. It’s what keeps us connected. After all, it’s what makes us feel alive.” It’s delivered like a diary entry, half observation, half plea. I replayed that line several times-not because I wanted to memorize it, but because I needed to feel it. Watching the characters reach for each other only to stop short felt like watching a song pause before the chorus.
The movie isn’t subtle. It doesn’t need to be. The absence of touch becomes the villain, a silent antagonist that neither character can defeat. As the credits rolled, I sat there wondering how many times I’ve brushed past someone’s shoulder, or hugged a friend hello, without thinking about what it would be like to have that taken away. We survive on conversation, yes. But we live on touch.
A Hug That Broke My Guard
My relationship with touch has changed as I’ve moved through life. As a kid, every auntie pinched my cheeks, every family friend ruffled my hair. High school brought its own distance; backpacks and bravado replaced the casual hugs of childhood. Now in college, independence is currency. We pass each other with nods and emojis, keeping our hands to ourselves as if touch is some relic from a different era.
I’ve never been a “hug person.” I don’t recoil from contact, but it’s never been the way I say hello or goodbye. I thought comfort was in words, in the debates and jokes and late-night conversations that stretch until sunrise. But a couple of weeks ago, all that certainty cracked.
I’d gotten into a small argument with a close friend-nothing dramatic, just a sentence that cut a little deeper than they intended. It hung in the air heavier than it should have. I felt my throat tighten and my eyes start to burn. I almost cried. I wanted to say something back, something strong, but the words wouldn’t come.
Another friend of mine-one of my best-was standing nearby. They didn’t say anything. They just stepped forward and wrapped me in a hug. It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t a pat on the back. It was firm, steady, immovable. I tried to pull away, embarrassed by how shaky I’d become, but they didn’t let go. In that moment, the fight, the hurt, the pride-it all blurred into the background. There was only warmth and breath and the steady beat of someone else’s heart reminding mine to keep going.
When we finally separated, I realized something no speech or text could have taught me: words can cut, but touch can mend. The people who love us notice when we’re falling apart, even when we think we’re holding it together. And sometimes they step in-not with solutions or advice, but with presence.
The Space Between
That hug kept echoing in my mind as I thought about Five Feet Apart. In the film, the characters trace the outline of each other’s hands through air, six inches apart, never touching. They share stories, laughter, even rebellion, but never skin. The space between them is both metaphor and prison.
Most of us will never know what it’s like to be denied touch for medical reasons. We touch without permission from the universe. We hug goodbye and high-five after good news. We lean on shoulders during long lectures and fall asleep on friends during road trips. And yet, because we can do it whenever we want, we forget how sacred it is.
Life is unpredictable in ways none of us can script. The last chance to hug someone might pass without a dramatic soundtrack or a slow-motion montage. It might just be a regular Tuesday, a quick goodbye before a flight, or a promise to “catch up later” that never gets fulfilled. In the movie, the five feet became a life sentence. In our lives, distance sneaks in quietly-through schedules, through misunderstandings, through the false belief that there will always be another chance.
Touch is more than physical contact. It’s a declaration: I see you. I’m with you. When my friend held on to me, they weren’t solving my problem; they were telling me I didn’t have to solve it alone. In a world that increasingly filters connection through screens, a hug feels almost rebellious. It slows time. It says everything words miss.
Closing Thoughts
The value of human touch is easy to underestimate-especially for those of us who move through life believing we don’t need it. But maybe that belief is just another layer of armor. The people denied touch, whether by illness or distance, often understand its worth far better than those of us who take it for granted.
When I left India a few months ago, a couple of friends hugged me tightly at the airport. At the time, I was thinking about paperwork, boarding passes, the rush of making it to the gate. The hug felt like a formality. We promised to meet again, knowing how thin those promises can be when continents are involved. I didn’t fully feel the depth of it then.
Now, sitting here by the pond with Sheeran in my ears and the Bell Tower overhead, that memory finally lands. They weren’t hugging the person I was in that moment; they were holding onto every shared laugh, every 3 a.m. drive, every stretch of silence we’d ever sat through together. They were trying, in that brief embrace, to freeze time.
If you get the chance to hug your loved ones, take it. Don’t wait for a perfect moment. Don’t let pride, awkwardness, or the illusion of infinite tomorrows get in the way. Touch them gently, fiercely, sincerely. One day, either you or they will be five feet away-by circumstance, by choice, or by fate-and you’ll wish you had closed the gap while you could.
Tonight, I’m grateful for the friends who refuse to let go when I think I deserve to be left alone. I’m grateful for the movie that reminded me of the lives lived without touch. And I’m grateful for this calm campus night that let me finally put it all into words. The power of human touch may be silent, but once you feel it, it echoes for a very long time.