“Eight letters, three words. Say it, and I’m yours.”
Well, Chuck Bass, I fear those words won’t be coming out of my mouth anytime soon.
When I started watching Gossip Girl in eighth grade, I naively assumed my life would consist of heirs in tuxedos professing their love to me at black-tie galas. I pictured slow-motion limo arrivals, grand confessions on rainy New York streets, and declarations of love that could stop traffic.
But from my all-girls high school, the COVID-19 isolation years, a female-dominated major, all-female mentorship groups, and even leading an all-female Kairos retreat, I find I’ve spent most of my formative years in spaces that felt like soft, safe harbors. As senior year rushes by, my eighth-grade fantasy of finding my Chuck Bass feels like a lost subplot.
I’ve always tried to romanticize my life. I push myself to find joy in the simple, still, and somber moments. I sit on benches, in waiting rooms, and at my dining room table, often overcome with intense emotions of gratitude for everyone I’m surrounded by. When I journal each day, I smile as I replay conversations in my head. One of my longtime shortcomings, however, is properly expressing the joy and love I have for those around me.
Even in these unintimidating, all-female spaces, I’ve always been a friend who struggles to utter the “eight letters and three words.” I watch my friends say the phrase “I love you” like a freshman passing their dining card around Stu in May, when they discover the copious amounts of meal plan money left. Their constant words of affirmation leave me feeling slightly awkward as the “love yous” sometimes go unrequited.
To add fuel to this love-confused fire, I struggle with physical touch. My friends make fun of my inclination to take the air mattress, the isolated chair, the seat on the floor, or greet someone with an awkward, delayed hug. Even genuine quality time at BC often has to compete with my scattered Google Calendar. It’s not that I don’t love—it’s that sometimes my version of love doesn’t quite match the expectations.
But one facet of love Chuck Bass and I can agree on is our affinity for gestures—albeit very different ones. While he’s buying hotels and sending limos, I’m more of a chocolate and note-on-your-desk kind of girl. I’ve learned that nothing is more touching or meaningful than demonstrating love through action.
After an exhausting week, a surprise coffee in bed from someone who loves you can change the trajectory of your day. Through grieving a loved one, I learned how powerful the small things can be—like showing up with sweets when words just won’t cut it. When I’m stressed and overwhelmed at school, nothing feels more encouraging than a handwritten letter left at my door. These moments are quiet, almost invisible to anyone else, but they carry a kind of weight that no dramatic love confession ever could.
I’ve come to realize that my parents have always loved me this way. My mom sends me thoughtful messages most mornings, sprinkled with red heart emojis. My dad surprises me with cruller donuts. My sister leaves me little handwritten notes whenever she’s away, and my brothers, with all their chaotic energy, show their love by forcing me to play tennis with them. None of it is loud or cinematic, but it’s real.
My language of love has no words to it. I sometimes wish I could tell my friends how I feel when there is no chocolate candy and stationery around to leave at their desk. But how else would they believe me when I say “I love you”?
Isn’t love not action? I guess I’ll have to go to Richdale’s later. Chuck Bass can keep his limos—I’ve got chocolate.
