They say all good things come to an end. But I am finding it very, very hard to write this article.

Many of my articles are spontaneous, influenced by events in my week. But I’ve been working on this article for over a year.

In the winter vac of 2023-24, I applied to The Oxford Blue on a whim. I didn’t know much about journalism, so I applied to almost every section. I was given the role of Junior Editor for Columns, and began to edit these wonderful works of art that were being produced weekly.

A couple of weeks into term, my Senior Editor said, “why don’t you give it a go?” Although it was only just over a year ago, The Blue was a much smaller organisation, and we only had a few columns – there was space for another. Love Letters was born out of some very turbulent emotions. I thought I’d take it article by article – see what this journalism thing was all about, anyway. 

I fell so completely in love. Love Letters became a lifeline, a way to make my troubles seem silly. I thought no-one would read it, but increasingly had people mention it to me. It felt so good to write in a non-academic context. My tutor said it improved my academic writing. I had something to look forward to.

Last week, I watched the finalists at my college attend Finalists’ Formal. Perhaps I was too immersed in prelims revision last year, but this was a completely new experience for me. On the last night of term, I sat at my college bar with my friends, as hundreds of other students – first years and finalists alike – did the same, all celebrating the end of exams, the end of the year, and for many, the end of their time at university. 

It is a truly odd experience to watch people you have walked past every day for the last two years leave, knowing you’ll never see them again. I only have a couple of finalists I talk to on any kind of regular basis, but there were so many who I knew in passing – my friends’ college parents, fellow historians, people I’d sat next to in the library as we simultaneously stressed about an essay. 

These people are the great tragedy of my life: I have felt it at every stage. Moving from secondary school to sixth form, from sixth form to university, and now watching the finalists who I’d seen drunk out of their minds at bops leave. There is something infinitely special about this kind of relationship, expressed only through casual conversation and waves or smiles as we pass each other. It is tragic because it is not something we can save; we form it everywhere, yet each small relationship is unique. We know small details about each others’ lives, but it is sometimes details we have never told anyone else: times when that mask of politeness slips ever so slightly, and we say what we feel. A bad exam, a bad collections result, a small tragedy in one’s life: moments where we are unguarded and honest. 

Overhearing someone at lunch talking about their breakup, hearing small silly rumours about people, collaborating on projects or open days and keeping each other company in that fraction of time. The relationship is too small to salvage – it melts away in the breeze and in the passage of time – but these relationships leave bits of shrapnel in our hearts. Hearing a song that a drunk girl recommended to you at the club; cooking a recipe that someone mentioned offhand in the kitchen; reading an article that some historian told you would make the entire paper make sense. 

These tiny tragedies never end. We lose these small relationships, and then make more, continuing a cycle of polite smiles and awkward conversation. But they are what I wanted to end this column with – a recognition of these tiny things that we lose constantly. Perhaps I’m hoping that this column had that effect on someone: the same effect as a kind conversation during an essay crisis. 

This column has been actually quite a major part of my life, but it too has fulfilled that role of being able to vent to a stranger – or in this case, strangers. I would continue writing it forever if I could.

But all good things must come to an end. This too shall pass. Love Letters represents an older version of both myself and The Oxford Blue. During my time at The Blue, I have seen it expand and transform. Since starting this column, I have become confident and I have learned to find love in the little things.

This column was created out of all of my anxieties – both in terms of relationships and in terms of university. I felt I didn’t belong here, I felt that I didn’t deserve the people I was surrounded by. Part of why I’m saying goodbye is because this column achieved its purpose. In the first article I ever wrote, I asked the question: what is love? I began my journey of seeing love in the little things: often, it was a case of fooling both myself and my readers (sorry!) into believing I meant my own optimism. But I understand love now. I’ve found what I was searching for.