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  • Writer's pictureThe Blue and White Magazine

Heart Bweats

Miniature vignettes about moments of unexpected, unusual, or endearing campus connections.

By The Blue and White Magazine

Illustration by Nayeon Park

Laundry Night

I do laundry on Thursday nights. I separate lights from darks, always dialing home to ask my dad if it’s really okay for my red, white, and blue “Born in the U.S.A.” T-shirt to go in with my whites. Transferring my load to the dryer, I drop my socks. Another resident of the building laughs. Her husband has lived in the building since the 1950s. She tells me how, f I listen closely enough, I can hear our neighbor’s talking bird. She recalls another student from the year prior whose mother would come into the city to do her laundry. I smiled, knowing that if I asked, my dad would do the same. — AP

Illustration by Betel Tadesse

Advanced Seminar

We meet on the shaggy green rug of my bedroom for the first class of BC4055: Queering

Friendship. It’s an advanced seminar on figuring out what the fuck is going on between us. I joke that we should book a room in Hamilton (there’s too much history in Milstein). Maybe a chalkboard would help us dissect the boundaries of intimacy and the contextual complexities of “I think I love you.” We’re crawling out of our skin, lamenting how much easier it would be if we were straight. It’s absurd and strangely sweet and a touch tragic. It’s everything I never knew I needed to learn. — KK

A Near Miss

I had lost my wallet two days earlier and then found it again. I was serious this time about keeping track of it. But I was so late. I slipped it into my back pocket and, running down 110th to the B, it fell out. Watching from your window, you called out to me, but I didn’t hear you; too late, a near miss. You went downstairs, picked it up, went through its contents, then found me on Facebook and returned it. I don’t care much for the wallet, but it has a yearbook photo of my dad when he was 15, smiling dumbly into the camera through deep-set eyes. I look so much like him there. Thank you. — ZB

Illustration by Vanessa Mendoza


The fading sunlight casts my eyes amber. “Harvest Moon” wafts out of my open windows. I’m in the left turn lane, you’re crossing Broadway. I sit in a pregnant pause, waiting for a green light. You, a stranger, emerge in my open window, McDonald’s bag in hand,. My first thought is abduction. Yours is to announce “you’re so fucking beautiful” with a boldness I thought was extinct. From your jean pocket, a red camellia flower surfaces, passing from your hand to mine. The light turns green. “Harvest Moon” swells to its chorus. You watched me from afar, so maybe we’ll dance together again. — AD

Illustration by Maca Hepp


There’s a shared joke in the first-generation, low-income community on campus that we all share the same 20 dollars. Tragic, especially in a city as expensive as New York, but true. One night after my work study job, I suddenly remembered that I had not bought and could not afford a book that was required for a class the next afternoon. With payday the day after, I texted a group chat of fellow FGLI friends about my situation. Thankfully, two hours and four Venmo payments later, I was able to procure the book early the next morning and read it before class. Sometime later, I pitched in on groceries for one of the friends who had helped me buy the book. – MS

Illustration by Cadence Gonzales

Elevator Ride

I part with you over the course of our 20-second-long, nine-floor descent. Hand in hand, sleep in our eyes, your lips on my forehead, and your sweatshirt under my jacket. We do not take closeness for granted. A countdown with each floor; the end is signaled with L, a ding. We share another moment in the lobby, then off I go. See you in 45 minutes for breakfast at Hewitt. — MH

Illustration by Oonagh Mockler

The Ocky Way

Since time immemorial, Milano Market’s H19 (chicken cutlet, bacon, blue cheese, gruyere, tomato, and chipotle mayo on a toasted semolina roll) had ruled uncontested as the greatest sandwich in Morningside Heights. A day’s worth of calories wrapped in wax paper and tin foil, the H19 sustained me through many a Butler Sunday. Until one day, it disappeared. There remained an “H19” on the menu, but it was different; wrong. I was crestfallen. Recently, I decided to tempt fate. “Can I get an H19, The Old Way?” I hollered over the chorus of crinkling paper and beeping microwaves. To my shock and relief, the gentleman opposite me fully remunerated my customer loyalty and restored my faith in my fellow man. “H19 The Ocky Way. Got you.” — HA

Crossword Companions

Last year, Mondays meant Literature Humanities at 10:10 am and TheNew Yorker challenging crossword. One morning, I noticed the girl sitting beside me was sneaking peeks at the nine remaining blank boxes on my screen. I kept my gaze fixed on my computer, embarrassed that someone had noticed I was distracted and surprised that someone could see into my assumed invisible world. She scribbled something in the margins of her notebook, then discreetly oriented it toward me: egregious. Now as friends, I’ve gladly let her into my world, and have the distinct honor of being in hers. — MH



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