INTIMACY

ADDED TO THE FILE

VOLUME 2

INTIMACY

How many parts of ourselves do we borrow from others? Is it possible to ever really forget someone at all?

M

SPRING 24 asthead LINDSAY KHALLUF

Creative Director Art Director

KAT MINTCHEV Creative Director Editor-in-Chief

ZEENA IMAM Associate Creative Director

KENNA DOVEL Director of Campus Outreach

UNA MEKIC Director of External Outreach

EVELYN WIREDU IDEA Director

MADELINE BURNS Managing Editor Director of Photography

HEIDI PAN IDEA Director

LEILA HAMDAN Social Media Manager

RANIA KHAN Director of Fundraising

LORI JANG Head Stylist

JOSH CHANG Director of Operations

02

WHAT’S INSIDE?

HALF-HEART NECKLACE

RIPPED TIGHTS

photography: madeline burns, liz esteves creative direction: lindsay khalluf styling: lindsay khalluf models: eileen chen, lori jang writing: odi welter

photography: madeline burns creative direction: lindsay khalluf makeup: lori jang, zeena imam hair: zeena imam styling: lindsay khalluf creative assistance: kat mintchev models: sara amar, helen zhu writing: kat mintchev

HAIR photography: madeline burns, liz esteves creative direction: zeena imam makeup: isabella pamias styling: maya dow fashion design: jewel clark models: iman fadlalla, taylor moses, taylor lowe, sophia monsalvo writing: zeena imam

CAP OF CHAPSTICK photography: angela seymour, marina gallozzi, ashley jeong creative direction: lindsay khalluf makeup: lindsay khalluf hair: angela seymour styling: lindsay khalluf creative assistance: kat mintchev, lori jang models: madeline burns, jayla wideman writing: odi welter, helen zhu

PRESSED FLOWERS photography: madeline burns, zoe frantz creative direction: kat mintchev makeup: zeena imam, lori jang styling: lori jang, kat mintchev models: sophia fife, kenna dovel writing: saeed samra

NO STRINGS ATTACHED photography: zoe frantz, marina gallozzi creative direction: lindsay khalluf makeup: olivia mason, isabella pamias hair: kat mintchev styling: lori jang, lindsay k creative assistance: kat mintchev, marina gallozzi models: kat scarcorough, saeed samra writing: julianne meneses

THE MORNING AFTER photography: ashley jeong, liz esteves creative direction: kat mintchev styling: kat mintchev creative assistance: lindsay khalluf models: madeline burns, kenna dovel writing: serene gonzalez

PHONE INTERMISSION photography: marina gallozzi, angela seymour creative direction: zeena imam makeup: meghan mcgorty, olivia mason hair: meghan mcgorty, olivia mason styling: maya dow creative assistance: kat mintchev models: camden baucom, almitra guart, nia vasquez writing: amaya sims

ROLEPLAY

photography: madeline burns creative direction: kat mintchev makeup: isabella pamias styling: kat mintchev model: marre gaffigan writing: christina pan

JUNK DRAWER photography: liz esteves, madeline burns creative direction: lindsay khalluf makeup: isabella pamias hair: kat mintchev styling: lindsay khalluf, lori jang fashion design: jewel clark models: grant rabin, kayla pickett, ben winslow writing: heidi pan

SPRING 2024 COHORT lindsay khalluf, kat mintchev, zeena imam, josh chang, lori jang, leila hamdan, kenna dovel, una mekic, evelyn christina wiredu, heidi pan, rania khan, madeline burns, catherine cho, liz esteves, zoe frantz, marina gallozzi, angela seymour, ashley jeong, logan castellanos, serene gonzalez, christina pan, taryn lee, isabella pamias, olivia mason, mara goldstein, nia vasquez, amelia melo, isabel liu, jihoo yang, sara amar, maya dow, ayushi das, ava macdonald, francesca hales, arielle benjamin, hamilton swartwood, kayla eng, jazmin clark, nina skweres photo editing: lindsay k, kat mintchev, madeline burns graphic design: lindsay k, madeline burns, leila hamdan social media: leila hamdan, arielle benjamin

INTIMACY follows the journey of someone as they clean their room and find various objects that spark memories of what once was. It is split up into five broader sections: platonic intimacy, romantic intimacy, sexual intimacy, digital intimacy, and intimacy & the self. To follow along, take note of the objects noted in the title of each section.

well-balanced meal

You build a charcuterie board of cheddar, cucumbers, halved cherry tomatoes, turkey slices and pickles while I pronounce the French word with all the spit I can muster and spread avocado on toast toasted upside down so the browning is even, a trick I didn’t know until you.

You joke that you feel like a little boy as we balance the cutting board, plate, and bowl of frozen fruit out the two doors to the porch. That table is small, so we hold the plate and eat the avocado toast first.

I’m drinking a cup of tea from the assorted box you gifted me. You didn’t like tea before me, but now you try a sip every time I have a cup

We try to catch butterflies with berry juice on our fingertips, but they evade us.

We don’t care because we’re sitting together in the sun with a feast sprawled out before us.

by odi welter

but my memory’s getting blurry...

was it really just a friendship?

HAIR

My earliest memories of my hair are wrapped in a mix of confusion and hurt. I can still feel the sharp tug of little hands pulling at my braids, the laughter that echoed as they played pretend, using my hair like reins. My hair was treated like something to be tamed, something that set me apart in a way that wasn’t welcome.

For years, I tried to change that difference. I wanted my hair to be sleek, smooth, and effortless, like the hair I saw in commercials. But my hair wasn’t interested in being smooth or effortless. No matter how much I tried to straighten it, flatten it, or force it into submission, it would spring back, full of life and resistance, refusing to be anything other than what it was.

My relationship with my hair became a daily struggle, a battle that left me feeling exhausted and disconnected from myself. I’d wake up early, long before anyone else, trying to tame it into something it wasn’t, only for it to rebel by midday, frizzing up and defying my efforts. My hair seemed to have its own voice, one that I didn’t yet understand.

But as time went on, I started to listen to that voice. I stopped trying to fight my hair and began to understand it. I let it grow, let it curl and coil naturally, and in doing so, I began to see the beauty in its rebellion. My hair wasn’t just hair—it was an intimate connection to my identity, my Blackness, my roots. Each coil and curl carried the weight of history, the strength of my ancestors, and the pride of a culture that had been told time and again to straighten, to conform.

In embracing my hair, I found a deeper intimacy with myself. My hair became a reflection of who I truly am—wild, resilient, and unapologetically Black. It became a source of pride, not just for me, but for the community I was a part of. Because Black hair is more than just a style; it’s a powerful symbol of identity and resistance. It’s a connection to a shared history, a shared struggle, and a shared sense of belonging.

With this new sense of self, I reached out to others who had walked a similar path. Together, we formed a community—one built on the intimacy of shared experiences, of embracing our hair, our culture, our identities. We found strength in each other, creating a space where we could celebrate who we are without fear or shame.

My hair, once a source of anxiety and frustration, became a crown I wear with pride. It’s a symbol of the intimacy I’ve cultivated with myself and with my community. It’s a daily reminder of my roots, my resilience, and the collective power of Black hair.

Now, when I look in the mirror, I see more than just curls and coils—I see the intimacy of a journey that has connected me to myself and to others who share in that same love and pride. My hair is not just a part of me; it’s a testament to the strength and beauty of embracing who we are, together.

crowned in coils

by zeena imam

Cap of

C

hapstick

I don’t want to have sex with you.

I want to call you names that make you blush that same color as your hair, drink bubble tea while we walk down the street holding hands.

I want to cuddle with you on the couch while we watch Megamind or The Hunt, play with your hair and promise you it still looks the exact same.

I want to call you gay when you call me pretty and have you do that same back, walk around the museum and listen to you tell me everything about every ancient pot.

I want to introduce you to my family and watch them fall in love with you too, see you get along with my friends because they are the family I chose.

I want to hold your hand while I drive and kiss you at every red light and under the streetlight on the ugliest street in our city.

I want to squeeze together onto my twin bed as my roommate tells us about her day at work and whisper that we love each other as soon as she leaves.

I want to overcook pasta with you because we got distracted trying to figure out if this is a date even though you bought my favorite movie and wine to go with it.

I want to wear the necklace you got me because I mentioned once that moss agate is my favorite and keep wearing matching bracelets like we’re best friends in middle school.

I want to sit in silence in the same room and read books, turn every snow day into cuddling with hot chocolate days.

I want to crush your soul back into your body and wear you as a backpack, watching stupid cat and dog videos as my cats try to separate us because they love you too.

I want to make you smile so much your face hurts and kiss you in front of the Addam’s family pinball machine just like we did the first time.

But I don’t want to have sex with you, and that’s okay because you don’t want to have sex with me either.

by odi welter

Love is not always visible, but touch is

The

Lovers

by Helen Zhu

Love is not always Visible…

But touch is…

I love you so I touch you so Is that what love means?

To you?

To me?

Love, to me, is the bubbling, fizzling, sparkling of my heart, my happiness My soul.

My lover brings a spark to my life… through sincere touch.

The touching of hands, of heads, of hearts, and of souls.

My lover brings a spark to my life…

And to my Love.

i promise

i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’mi’m sorry sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’msorry sorry i’m i’m sorry sorry i’mi’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’msorry sorry i’m i’m sorry sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry mmsorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m i’m i’m sorry sorry sorry i’m sorry i’m i’m sorry sorry sorry mi’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m i’m sorry i’msorry sorry

i promise i promise i promise i promise

it won’t

happen again i promise i promise i promise

i got you something

?

i promise

it’s okay

pressed flowers

i understand

thank you

On the flat of my back, In your embrace, Chocked in the still airs of lucidity, Between my eyes like the rolling surf, I beg of you, stop that sound that fills my head when I spend all day designing a kiss to brush the ends of your lips a lily to pleat into the sway of your crown. stop that sound of choppy rain when I spend all day and squander my love.

But did I tell you?

I found, on the river bend, lily of the valley, bright in the recesses of my soul.

Won’t you come by / to walk among the flowers?

In the pause of your voice I found a creak that hums to a fallen cherry and an ivy that spans their binded lips Won’t you come by / to watch the ivy grow? ...

Even in my thoughts / your silence routs me.

Without cover from the aching sun, my lilies will wilt and my sundrops will forget how to sway.

I beg of you, suspend me in the clouds so I might never again see light, or know it’s fall, but from the sun in those two droplets of pearl. so I might never again know ground but on those palms that moor the freckled stars. so I might never again beg absolution but to those lips, which commands the kneeling of the surf and the gutting of the sky.

else

/

For now, My tears are kisses on my cheek your words are hollows in my mind I wear a petal on my ring and wait for it, like love, to bloom ...

Am I lost? ...

Even the moon knows how to twist away her face

set me loose,

letter from a cloud by camden baucom

unthinkable

i wish i could go back to that moment in time when i still thought there were flowers between our legs waiting to bloom our breathing would sync and i’d feel warm and you’d feel soft i wish i could go back and take it back everything i gave you everything i had the water i needed the colors of my shut eyes and knotted fucked-up hair

by Saeed Jude Samra

but there was so soil or soul in a shitty bathroom stall nowhere to rest my roots fix my posture or pick up my wilting head and shine under the gleaming stars i thought i would be there no room for fantasy only for your fantasies

one man taught me the unthinkable isn’t invaluable and i pray to someday find one that may help me pick up my rotted petals strewn across the bathroom floor a mess i’ve been forced to clean a mess you’ve stepped over

one who may turn off the light illuminating the tears i use to water my bleeding stem

one who may return me to the wind i once soured through rather than this vase i lay encased in too sharp to touch too fragile to hold

take my hand take me home

no strings attached

/

red lingerie

Is intimacy confined by time and space?

The last time we saw each other you were wearing the shirt I gave you for our one year anniversary.

The cloth remained the same but you filled it in differently this time.

I wonder of the other lives you lived in that shirt, detached from me, I imagine so many that its origins are long forgotten.

Is it still intimacy if I continue to barge in on the memory of us?

Rewinding Restarting Rewriting I don’t remember your kiss, but I feel your lips— their pressure, their warmth, their sweetness— a phantom limb.

If intimacy is knowing a person in their entirety, why do I still crave you?

You don’t exist anymore.

Yet I keep my arms open, just in case, but I am left yearning Or perhaps intimacy is knowing that someone came and left a permanent mark even if they weren’t permanent themselves because I may never know you again but I’ll always carry a little piece of you that you quite can’t get back.

Your feast on my body lasted for more than two years.

You carefully picked off the meat, cracked my bones to suck out the marrow.

Did I taste good?

Now, remnants stuck in your teeth remind you of what once was.

At least you were kind enough to consume me slowly, tenderly.

I hope I was filling, satisfying even.

I am too delicate not to be savored.

How can anyone else know me that deeply, that intensely, when I am gone?

Maybe intimacy isn’t the person, but the grief that follows their departure.

I had a dream that you no longer wanted me.

I woke up with my arms snaked around my body, so tight, I thought to myself, ‘this must be the safety of the womb.’

Settling with the feeling that the cycle has come to an end.

I hope intimacy is the blanket that is draped upon you, unknowingly, when the open window leaves you cold.

The fire has been snuffed out by the wind but something else will come to keep you warm.

Death is not a lonely act.

by julianne meneses

The Morning After

Silk Sheets

artwork by patricia estrada

Six o'clock, I didn't sleep last night.

My eyes, my brain, alert throughout time.

I pay close attention to my breath.

Inhaling, but failing to eliving my exhale.

Never have I felt so real, So alive, so mistakenly alive.

My night was continuously spent Staring, Gazing, peeping out Your exposing window, wondering how Your obnoxious snore prevails.

I stayed next to you all night long.

My back to you, the closest I can be To the wall.

My body continues to stiffen In the unforgiving, piercing cold.

The hairs on my bare leg stay Erect, up in great discomfort.

Can I stay? Keep up this facade?

I am not the same woman who came here, she is gone, waiting to return next weekend.

Scoot, slither, slide out, out, out.

You hear me, I know you hear me, But you ignore it and continue to turn.

Unaware of your snore, you breathe normally I say nothing, make no noise Louder than the zip of my jeans.

Left shoe, right shoe.

Quietly I close the door.

In full consciousness, I attempt to forget About last night, about how i wished It went differently, and how Isolated I am.

by serene gonzalez Six o’clock, I missed you from last night.

I return, wishing you’ll stay Do you remember last night The way I do? do you see me The way I see you?

In your company, I am safe.

You slept a mile away And yet I stay content in your warmth I had no dream last night.

How I wished I dreamed of you.

How I wish for your presence a second more.

Before the physical, before it all, We shared a connection.

You must have felt the way I did When my eyes met yours.

I relished in your laugh, Fake or real.

My dimples formed as I saw The birthmark on your shoulder.

I am in full consciousness now As you leave me.

Is my desire unwanted?

You could have stayed.

Come back to me.

Clothed or not. Jeans zipped or not.

I do not care.

It was one night, I know it was Only one night, But I slept with a silent grin, An expression not of conquest but of ease.

I won’t, I can’t speak to you, but I will continue to question why.

Why that night was nothing to you And everything to me.

IPPED TIGHT

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by kat mintchev

BLAH

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do i look sexy enough right now

?

a much needed break: phone intermission

by amaya sims

roleplay

/

clothes that don’t fit anymore

by christina pan

what parts of ourselves do we keep hidden, pushed aside, and borrowed from others? how can revisiting these parts help us grow?

by heidi pan

All of the crochet clothing in this magazine was handmade by Jewel Clark. Check out her shop, Blue Honey Crystal, by using the QR code above!

Founded in the 2023-2024 school year, Added to the File (ATTF) is Georgetown’s first fashion photography magazine. It publishes two issues per year, with each issue centered around a “theme” that is explored through writing, fashion, photography, and other forms of visual artwork.

ATTF is dedicated to providing a creative space on campus for multidisciplinary collaboration and artistic expression. It was founded as a unique, artistic niche on campus for students to destress and be vulnerable through a variety of creative outlets.

Through our publication, we aim to facilitate discussion around topics relevant to students today. Most importantly, we strive to create an environment on campus that instills confidence and selfacceptance in our community.