I know I’m supposed to want someone familiar. Someone my family would understand without questions, without awkward silences at dinner tables, without whispered warnings from relatives.
But somehow, I’ve always been drawn to Hindu boys.
Maybe it’s the difference. The quiet curiosity of learning someone else’s festivals, prayers, traditions. The way their names sound so different from mine. The contrast between my silver crescent necklace and the red threads some of them wear around their wrists. It feels forbidden in a way that makes my heart race, even when nothing inappropriate is happening at all.
I like the idea of being understood by someone who grew up differently from me. Of explaining Urdu words to him while he teaches me the meaning behind things I never knew before. Of arguing over music, teasing each other over food habits, celebrating Eid and Diwali together even if the world thinks it’s complicated.
And maybe it’s because Hindu men I’ve met often carry this calm confidence that pulls me in. Protective without trying too hard. Soft-spoken until they’re passionate about something. The kind of energy that makes me want to keep listening.
I know people would judge me for admitting it out loud. Maybe some already would. But attraction is strange like that — it doesn’t always follow the lines people draw for you.
I’m only eighteen. Maybe it’s just fascination. Maybe it’s rebellion. Or maybe I simply like people who make my world feel bigger than the one I grew up in.