Dear Reader,

In this world, there are the people and the people-watchers. I make it known that I’m the latter.

Playing pretend with passersby is my signature party trick. The other day, I cast a handful of unknowing players at the Lakefill into the love of someone who adored them.

In my mind, the cyclist with the loudspeaker and even louder neon clothes became someone’s irreplaceable, adventurous best friend. The chatty middle-aged man picnicking nearby became a passionate husband and raconteur. And the woman with the Arabic tattoo that read “memories” was a future bride-in-waiting learning to love again.

Love drove me to invention. And it wouldn’t be anything novel to point out the title preceding this trail of content, but I’ll gently proceed anyway — “Dear Reader, Love Rawya.”

At its crux, my writing for this column is an act of sharing — and by that, it’s love. It’s a love for expression. Sometimes it’ll be a love for offering up how my perspectives revolt against traditional scripts of power and identity. Other times, my writing will be a lighter kind of love — a breezy soufflé, but still beaten with the kind of substance I hope manages to stick.

In all cases, though, love is intimate. It’s sacred to the marrow. As a creative caution, there’s only so much I can share with you. The rest stays hidden, as it must.

But actually, I think the most practical thing about this party we’re having, dear reader, is that I require nothing from you. You’re my guest. You’re everyone and no one. You’re witnessing me and, thus, rearranging me. Heisenberg and Charli xcx talked about this.

Everyone pitter-pattering through this party is white-knuckling sheer hope and a story of their own. I’ve felt the promise leeching into my bones — it’s our word against the infinite.

Reinvent yourself, ye who yearn. Pick a little bit of this and a little bit of that to become. Try on this persona — these contrarian beliefs really make your eyes pop. All these jagged bits and bobs will surely, somehow someway add up to something legible!

Please don’t do that, dear reader.

I like to think most of my writing isn’t some preachy anthem about what ought to be done or how. I’m not here to fix you or be fixed. I’m here to watch.

I needed a spectacle tonight, so step into the light. Speak up so you can be found. And when you’re found — when you inhabit yourself fully — take this as a toast: I love you, dear reader.

But never dispense an “I love you, too” just for the sake of courteous exchange. Why cheapen this statement — excavated from the depths of our most visceral emotions — by transactionally parroting back an uninspiring “too?” Love is action, not reaction. “Too” is tired. In love, there’s no place for “too.”

Too much love is exactly enough. And every good host knows not to forget to cut the “too,” too.

“I love you” is a statement of power. Acting with love, therefore, is power. It’s a democratic discipline fluent in tenderness. It’s spiritual physics. It’s a party trick. And what’s a party without the people and people-watchers?

We’ve been here before, haven’t we?

Love asks for heat. Fan the flames. Light the party on fire. And, as always:

Love, Rawya

Rawya Hazin is a Medill freshman and author of “Dear Reader, Love Rawya.” She can be contacted at rawyahazin2029@u.northwestern.edu. If you would like to respond publicly to this op-ed, send a Letter to the Editor to opinion@dailynorthwestern.com. The views expressed in this piece do not necessarily reflect the views of all staff members of The Daily Northwestern.

Email: rawyahazin2029@u.northwestern.edu

X: @rawyahazin

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