On a random midnight, 4 beers later, a highly intoxicated me decided to continue watching, Breakfast at

Tiffany’s all by myself. I don’t know how it went.

When Audrey with all her perfection and poise, grace and grandeur says, "People don’t belong to
people", I had a sudden rush of awakening. It was something I had been repeating to myself over and
over for a very long time. When all of my childhood friendships ended over petty arguments, when my
earliest relationship made me question commitment, when my teenage anger propelled me away from
my family, when I ended something I thought was my ‘forever’, when isolation was strangling me in
early university days, when irrational hopes of leaning on to someone faded away by my own quest of
pragmatism, I always whispered the same sentence to myself. "People don’t belong to people." And ran
away.

But like lies, hypocrisy is what has designed the pedestals of human existence. After all these years full
of all these instances of somehow seeking someplace where someday I could find someone to settle
with, yet somewhat running away eventually, I want to belong to someone.

I don’t know if this pursuit is romantic or just a reflection of how I want to fill the void inside my heart
with companionship, but I really want to belong to someone.

When I wake up, I want to be pulled back to the bed to celebrate moments of silence, minutes of
inactivity, breaths of absolute nothingness. I want that someone to caress my hair as I lay my head on
his heart foolishly counting every heartbeat echoing through my ears. I want to hear them again and
again until I lose count and start counting until I finally fall back asleep or he decides to kiss me and start
the day.

I want to cook for that someone. Not a grand meal, because 1st, I lack the skill and on a general note, I
lack the will. I want to serve him just simple meals with delicious intentions. As I sit across the table
scrutinizing his reactions, some days when I ask him how the food is, I want him to nod while gulping the
food. Some days, I want him to make faces saying he hates it. Some days, I wish to see him smile
because he liked the food. But, most of the days, I’d prefer if he cooks.

I want to play silly games to decide who drives the car to work. If we are lucky and have two, the winner
shall get to leave first.

I want him to send me memes at work which make me crack up even at stressful days. I want him to
update me with contemporary news. I want him to talk about sensitive issues, sports, history, cars,
dresses, food, anything. I want texts and pictures, I want political discourses, I want good music, I want
hilarious jokes. I want random I love you, I also want him to shut the fuck up sometimes.

I wish to listen to music with him under fancy lights that I intend to project to our ceiling. I don’t want
him to complain if he doesn’t like the music. I’d prefer, "How about this? ", and he plays his song. I hope
he knows my mood like the back of his hand. I hope he understands that there will be Lana Del Ray days,
complete Eminem days, some AC/DC days, some Billie Eilish days. Even in a day of complete sobriety, I
hope he understands if I hammer our walls with party music. I hope he hums songs that I played to him
before. I hope he pays attention to the lyrics I ask him to. I hope he is patient enough to wait for the
bass drops. I hope he goes for the head bang. I wish he does not laugh if I cry to some songs.
I want to go on long walks with him or even cycling for hours. When I ask him to take pictures of me, I
wish he agrees and takes good ones. If I frown over anything, I hope he acknowledges that photos are
important to me, in a way that it seals my memories. I hope he understands that I would want good
memories, aesthetic memories, blurry memories, casual memories, candid memories, memories in all
shades. I want every memory with him.

When my eyes turn wide and gleam at the most random and common things on our way, like a clear
sky, or greenery, or blue lakes and sunsets, I hope he smiles with me. I hope he holds my hand when old
couples pass by. I hope he smiles and nods at them like I do. I hope he sees us in them.

I want him to read things I would write for him and feel the things I wouldn’t be able to say out loud. I
want him to come running to me if he feels down. I want him to come find me and hug me and tell me
that he doesn’t feel good. I want him to stay in my arms until he feels better. I wish he acts tough if he
feels he must, but not in a misogynistic way. I want him to accept that vulnerability isn’t gender specific.
I hope he knows that sensitivity doesn’t make you less stronger.

I wish we could watch all kinds of movies together. We’d watch crime documentaries and period films,
extraordinary action and jaw dropping thrillers. But even if I suggest a hysterical rom-com, I hope he
complies and doesn’t become outright dismissive.

I hope he tells me that he loves me. I hope I can hold him and say the silliest of things and he’d listen. I
want him to take me seriously but I also want him to fool around. I hope he takes up a lot of
responsibilities, but I hope he knows when to let go. I want him to hold me close whenever he wants to
and remind me how I belong to him.

I don’t care if people find us stupid, crazy or dramatic, I want to be stupidly, crazily, dramatically in love
with him. I want him to claim me even after I am already his. I want every day to be new. I want him to
write me notes in his best handwriting. I want him to remember stupid details like I do. I want him to
understand that I am not normal. I wish he accepts that I will never be. I wish he sees that I can paint his
world every day. But most of the days, even I have no idea what colors I have or will need.

I want to belong to such a person. But this is something I want. I want him to tell me what kind of person
he wanted to belong to. I’d try to be that person. I hope he lets me. I hope he knows that we will have
imperfections. I hope he still loves me and admires them like they were blemishes on the moon.

When I get absolutely drunk, I want him to scold me, hold me and remind me that this is too much
alcohol. As I throw up, I wish he watches me with fear and amusement, concern and comedy, love and
laughter. I want him to drag me back to bed and watch me until I fall asleep. I’d do the same if it was
him. I want him to wake me up the next day and whisper all the embarrassing things I did.

When I ask him to watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s, on a random midnight, cuddled up with coffee and
candies and Audrey says, "People don’t belong to people ", with the same magic, I want him to foolishly
look at me and say, "Not you! You belong to me. "

I want him to hold that romantic, dreamy, unearthly gaze for a few seconds. After that, whether he
decides to kiss me or crack up at the ultimate cringe, it’s up to him.

I wouldn’t care. I would have belonged to him anyways.