In the summer of 2015, when the air smelled like overripe peaches and the days dripped slow like syrup, I believed the sweetest thing in the world was a popsicle from the grocery store. The red kind that stained your lips and made your fingers sticky, the kind that melted faster than you could eat it. I was 10, maybe 11, with knees scraped from biking too fast down hills and a heart still soft from never being broken.

My grandma lived with us that summer. She moved a little slower than she used to, and wore saris that rustled like stories when she walked. Every afternoon at exactly 3:00 p.m., she’d sit by the window and peel mangoes like it was a sacred ritual. She’d call me over with a soft “Tatsu,” and hand me a slice cold from the fridge, the skin already peeled, juice pooling in the corners of the plate.

Sometimes she’d tell me stories about her childhood, back when sweets were rare and you had to earn them. Other times, we didn’t talk at all. Just sat together, the fan humming, the world outside slowed down, and I could hear the wind breathing through the trees. I didn’t know then how much I’d miss those silences.

One day, I asked her, “What’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever tasted?”

She looked at me for a while, her eyes soft and faraway, then smiled. “It’s not something you can eat,” she said. “It’s when someone remembers you without needing to be reminded. When they do something kind for you just because. That’s the kind of sweetness that doesn’t wash off.”

I didn’t understand what she meant until years later, during finals week where I was balancing + work + Mandir, in my first year of CC, when I found a note from my mom taped to my lunch. Just five words: “You’ve got this. I’m proud of u betu.” There was no chocolate, no celebration. Just the reminder that someone saw me. And that feeling, that stillness , brought me right back to the mangoes, the fan, the soft rustle of my grandma’s sari.

Sweetness, I’ve come to learn, is less about sugar and more about presence. It’s when someone shows up on a Tuesday for no reason. When a friend knows your silence isn’t anger, but tiredness. When your mom makes that one dish the way only she knows how. When your sibling saves you the last bite.

Now, as an adult, I still get cravings not for candy or cake, but for those slow, sacred moments. For quiet benches with my brother. For the sticky popsicles. For the mango slices in a chilled steel plate. For the feeling of being seen without performance.

And sometimes, it’s in things you didn’t expect to remember. The soft cotton of your favorite childhood T-shirt. The way the sun used to catch the dust in the hallway at 4:17 p.m. exactly. Or the first time someone held your gaze and didn’t look away. Not because they were trying to charm you, but because they didn’t want to miss anything about you, the curve of your smile, the hesitation in your breath, the quiet thoughts swirling behind your eyes.

It’s the little rituals of care. A friend braiding your hair before a big day. (I wrote this to appeal to the women reading this) Someone offering their sweater when you say you’re fine but shiver anyway. A person who remembers you don’t like cilantro and never lets it touch your plate (In my defense I love cilantro, just a lil bit). The tenderness of being known without having to speak.

And sometimes, sweetness lives in the electric joy of a childhood morning. Waking up on a golden July day, the light pouring through the blinds like warm honey, and reaching for your Nintendo 3DS still tucked under your pillow. You’d saved up for it, washed cars, ran errands, collected every crumpled dollar like it was treasure. You’d flip it open and the theme music from Pokémon X and Y would fill the room, as familiar and thrilling as a heartbeat. You’d lie there, half under the covers, wondering which Pokémon you’d Mega Evolve today, Charizard X, with his blue flames; Blastoise, steady and proud with his big cannons or Houndoom, all shadow and fire. It wasn’t just a game. It was a world. And for those few hours, that world was yours.

So maybe the sweetest thing isn’t loud. Maybe it’s not even a thing at all.

Maybe it’s the feeling of being home in someone’s memory.

What’s the sweetest thing?

Maybe it’s not sugar at all.
Maybe it’s connection. Attention. Presence.
Maybe it’s being seen and choosing to see others with the same care.

So I’ll ask again, not because I have the answer, but because maybe you do.

What’s the sweetest thing?

Til then

@pplcallmetat