To be an Opinion writer is to love words. Our words, whether in the form of op-eds, editorials or personal narratives, inspire us to seek out different perspectives, contextualize current events and exchange ideas in the hope that good writing will bring us together — no matter how divided we may seem.
Our section’s affinity for words draws us to celebrate this Valentine’s Day with a collection of short love stories, each 100 words or less. Inspired by The New York Times, we have compiled a collection of miniature anecdotes commemorating the people, places and passions that make up the mosaic of Emory University. While love means more to us than we could ever put into only 100 words, in this project, we seek to share just a glimpse of what makes those things we love so special.
Lola McGuire, Opinion Editor
Every day, I fall in love with the sun. Each morning, the sunbeams strike my kelly green comforter. I rise as my coffee gurgles and fills up my striped green mug. I watch as the steam refracts the pink, orange and yellow sunrise against the wall — a rainbow is formed.
I walk to my classes, stepping where the sun reigns. The crisp, green grass of the Quadrangle calls my name, and I find tranquility.
I fall in love with peace found under the sun, with comfort found under the sun and with my people under the sun.
Ellie Fivas, Managing Editor
I didn’t learn to love myself until I recognized my similarities to my dad. Everything I love about him, I see shining through in myself.
At every turn of my life, my dad has never stopped looking me dead in the eyes while urging, “Ellie, you can do this. Do not doubt yourself.” When I struggle, he is more than a cheerleader — he’s a coach. College is hard: I have repeatedly struggled with loving myself.
But I only ever have to look 121 miles north to remember that I deserve to love myself as much as I love my dad.
Safa Wahidi, Opinion Editor
Sunday mornings at Emory’s Clairmont Campus consist of waking up to the first glimmers of sunlight, drawing the blinds, smelling croissants and hearing the sounds of doors thudding. These mornings are the anticipation of the week ahead and the realization that yet another week has passed. Sundays are the knowledge that whatever life may bring, there will always be somebody one door down to lean on. There will always be a window to watch the seasons change through. And, there will always be croissants in the oven. Sunday mornings are real love — and they are worth waking up to.
Olivia Stanley, Staff Writer
When I imagine falling in love with words, a little blue book comes to mind.
As a young reader, I adored my grandmother, Barbara, who published a sky-blue paperback book when I was in middle school. When she suddenly died in 2020, grief stole the drive I had to follow in her footsteps.
Then, I re-read her book. Turning its pages, I watched my grandmother come back to life and remembered my dream. Barbara taught me that I am a writer, just like her. I am a story unwritten, and I will live until my pages are full.
Chloe Nam, Assistant Sports Editor
As kids, my sister and I would stay up past our bedtime for our dad to come home from work. Sprawled on the couch, we would drift off, heads bobbing with our waning consciousness. When we finally heard the garage door opening, we would jerk awake and race to greet him. His scrubs always smelled like disinfectant — strange but comforting. After hugging us, he would drop a few coins into our palms. Our goal was to fill our piggy banks. We stopped asking for coins after a few years, but my piggy bank still sits on my bookshelf, almost full.
Hunter Buchheit, Assistant Arts & Life Editor
Driving to Starbucks with my best friend before sitting in our high school parking lot. Walking the halls and embracing the people who moved through adolescence alongside me. Racing through suburban streets at dusk. It’s all gone now. Some people have drifted away, and some drifted closer to me. A year removed from high school, I’m surrounded by new people I’ve found at Emory. But my love for that awkward, messy, angsty and beautiful era of my life has never been stronger. Those years — and those people — helped push me toward myself and toward the life I’ve waited years for.
Ethan Jacobs, Assistant Opinion Editor
Nothing feels more like home than watching my Charlotte Hornets lose in my living room. Sitting on the couch with my brother, our world shrinks to fast breaks, one-legged LaMelo threes and the blind faith that maybe, just maybe, this time will be different. Hornets fans don’t cheer for parades — we cheer because we can’t help it. We love our basketball team because even after nine straight years without making the NBA playoffs, it takes just one contagious “Hum diddly dee!” from announcer Eric Collins to have us smiling ear to ear, ready to be back for the next game.
Josselyn St. Clair, Contributing Writer
The skyscrapers are sleek and vibrant, jutting in front of each other to impose themselves over the Atlanta skyline. The first time I saw the buildings, I pressed my face against the glass as my train raced closer toward them. I held my breath out of reverence and awe. The thrill rushed through my body at the thought of all that was possible beneath the glimmering lights, and I felt so free. Witnessing this beautiful collage of creativity and ingenuity is still exhilarating. I am falling into the lights, knowing that my love for this city will never diminish.
Satvika Bharadwaj, Contributing Writer
My love for words and books began when I was 6, walking to the library with my mom — Ma, as I call her. She borrowed books, and I got to pick two comic books each month. I still remember the stacks of novels and the scent of old paper. Books have always felt like home, maybe because they remind me of those walks with Ma. Years later, in high school, my mother was my chemistry teacher. In class, I called her ma’am. But chemical symbols never held the same weight as words, and ma’am was never the same as Ma.
Nico Mestre, Contributing Writer
When I was 10 years old, I raced my friend at our local ice rink and fell on my face, splitting the skin beneath my lip. I thought I’d never skate again. The 2014 Winter Olympics were the following year, and man, did those figure skaters fly. Over the next five years, I got used to the dizziness of spinning on the tip of my blade. Who would I be without knowing how to land on my feet? To fall? It was an unlikely love, but I don’t know who I would be if I’d let the scar define me.
Cayden Xia, Assistant Opinion Editor
A black sky, littered with tiny white lights, envelops me. I intently stare at it, tracing an invisible line between the stars and hoping to make out the constellations. My friends are around me, connecting the dots and pointing out the Big Dipper, Orion’s Belt and the brightly shining North Star. The lulling sounds of nature pass by in the background, and tonight, in the secluded woods of Acadia National Park, I’m only focused on the vast and expansive universe. Experiences like this are rare to come by, but when they do, I love every moment of them.
Alex Kauffman, Senior Staff Writer
I met my first girlfriend on Among Us in 2020. During the COVID-19 pandemic, we often socialized with mutual friends on a Discord server. In a haze of sleep-deprived Minecraft gaming, she said she wanted to date me. We met in person one month later. We broke up last December. It’s over, and I don’t regret it. I cherish everything colored by her — the Minecraft server, senior prom, In-N-Out milkshakes, the color orange and the rest. I don’t know if I’ll ever experience another meet cute as funny as an Among Us gaming session, and for that, I am grateful.
Noble Garcia, Staff Writer
Love is hard for me to define. If there is a feeling of mine that is close to love, then it pops up in conversation. I have dreamed of meeting someone with whom I can talk endlessly about any interest. There were times when someone nearly met that standard, and I’m better for every chance I spend with a person so wonderful. Their humor and talent have been the light that has led me through the most miserable moments of my life. Without this friend, I would not be nearly as present in anything I experience. Thank you to KY.
Davis Swann, Contributing Writer
I love the land that has raised me. Back then, it was my backyard with its towering poplars and the path to school that snaked between sweetgums and wild strawberries. Now, it’s the creek circling my new house, the clover field my father planted where the deer gather each evening, and the powerline clearings I hike with friends. Every November, it’s the Christmas tree farm hills where I’ve played, cried and laughed wildly since I was a baby. Land reminds me that I’m permanent, and that what I create with the gift of my body means something.
Kristen Seo, Contributing Writer
I occasionally reflect on my old journal entries and travel to the past. In my dorm room, I smile as Kristen from the past exclaims, “I got into Emory!” I listen to her ramble about her crush, knowing we are now together. As I continue reminiscing, I realize my adventures will one day become pages for future Kristen to revisit. I remind myself that if my worries from the past worked out, then my present self will be OK as well. My journals are a time capsule for my memories as I develop a profound love for my experiences.
Haley Huh, Copy Chief
I only see this friend a few times a year, but I carry the embers of her intentionality and firm commitment to life every day. One of my closest friends is now 9,947 miles away, but her curiosity about people and the world feels just as close. My boyfriend and I may not always agree, but we enrich each other’s lives, and he is deeply ingrained in the fabric of my childhood and my story. I am the people dear to me, and I am also a part of the wonderful, ever-changing mosaic that is them.
Asmita Lehther, Contributing Writer
Piping hot mac-and-cheese and cold metal spoons. The first time I burnt my tongue was at my friend’s house. At 6, play dates were a luxury I had only begun to explore. Driving home in our wine-tinged Toyota, the radio softening our sparse dialogue, I fantasized about the meal my mom had prepared. Her words of affection were few, but she sang life into her home-cooked meals. I’d remind myself that, even on the darkest day, her elbow pasta with gouda cheese would light me up (not set me on fire). My mom told me she loved me with pasta.
