kithul, Cream and Crushes

 the dessert that ruins me in the sweetest way possible...


Once every semester, I do something sacred. I take a walk, not too long, but long enough to pass the engineering faculty—long enough to pretend I’m just out for dessert, and not also secretly glancing at the campus heartthrobs in their dusty jeans and backpacks like they’re part of the meal plan.

But let’s be honest. They’re just the appetizer.

I’m here for the kithul thalapa with ice cream.

It’s a sinful, sticky, stupidly sweet bowl of warm, grainy thalapa swimming in kithul syrup, with a scoop of vanilla ice cream melting on top like it just gave up resisting. And I get drowsy halfway through. Every. Single. Time.

The walk there is half the experience. Me and my friend, aimlessly chatting, not even pretending we’re not checking out the engineering guys. We spot one, give each other a look, keep walking. Eyes up, heart soft, sugar cravings sharper than judgment.

And then we reach that tiny spot near the edge of engineering faculty—the kind of place you wouldn’t notice unless you were specifically heading there with a dessert-shaped hole in your soul. We sit. We order. We don’t talk much after that. It’s not silence, it’s sweetness doing the talking.

The kithul syrup is thick and smoky. The ice cream is cold enough to hurt a little. Together, they melt into something that makes the world pause. For once, we’re not in a rush to be anywhere. Not chasing deadlines or fixing ourselves. Just girls with sticky hands and heavy eyes and full hearts.

Sometimes I think this dessert is a spell.

Not just because of how good it tastes, but because of how safe it feels.

It holds me in a way most things don’t. Soft, slow, forgiving.

It doesn’t ask me to be strong or smart or perfect.

It just asks me to sit down, take a spoonful, and breathe.

And the boys? They disappear the moment that first bite hits.

Every semester, I fall in love. With the dessert. All over again.


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