As I see it, affection is practically invisible on this campus. Maybe it’s a New York thing. Or maybe it’s a generational thing—I have no clue. It absolutely doesn’t parade around in the open. Still, it’s there, and it fits into little interstices throughout the day: on a bench between classes, through small talk in passing, in dorm rooms, or on the job. On this campus—where it seems that people don’t have the time or expendable energy for extravagant gestures—love and affection come in short bursts: in moments that are indiscernible to most of us because they’re too short, too discreet, or too subtle.

I started this essay three weeks ago and carried my camera to class and around campus every day. The first two weeks killed me—I didn’t touch the shutter button once—because I didn’t know what to look for. I was looking for the “V-J Day in Times Square after WWII” stuff, and, of course, I didn’t find any of it. (Frankly, the project made me despondent for a few days, and I started to worry that it would only reinforce the popular narrative of a cold, stressful, and isolating student experience.) Eventually, I stopped romanticizing things; I acknowledged that I wasn’t going to find the overt, passionate affection I had set out for. And only then did I start to notice the affection in places I’d overlooked: behind the omelette bar in Ferris, on the remaining grass beside Low Steps, in the 3:55 p.m. stream outside of Hamilton.

If I’ve succeeded, I’ve captured a small slice of what affection looks like today at Columbia. I hope it makes you as optimistic as it makes me.