The chocolate hearts had already started to melt in the drugstore window by February 13th. There are heart banners draping from one side of the window to another, advertising the new invention of the year, which supposedly improves love.

My phone is already screaming. Couples. Captions. “Forever.” “My person.” “Couldn’t do life without you.” The algorithm thinks I need proof that I’m missing something. It keeps handing me evidence.

I hate lies wrapped in pretty red ribbons. I hate clapping for roses. I hate insincere feelings hidden between a kiss and an embrace. I hate the cheers for dying flowers after two weeks and a romantic night in bed.

Inside, everything is red. Red like urgency. Red like warning signs.

Here is Exhibit A: a bouquet the size of a small child.

Exhibit B: a dinner reservation posted before the appetizer even arrives.

Exhibit C: a paragraph about destiny written by someone who was flirting with somebody else last month.

Love has become a performance review. A public statement. We announce it like a promotion and mourn it like bad press. No one talks about the in-between.

I’ve seen what “forever” looks like when it’s tired.

Unfortunately, we only clap for the spectacle. We applaud the grand gestures and ignore the maintenance. We call obsession devotion. We call possession passion. We call attention love.

Love isn’t a holiday. It’s a slow, agonizing hemorrhage. You give pieces of yourself away until one day you look down and realize you’ve been walking around lighter for years, and you’re not sure whether that’s freedom or simply less of you left to carry.

Happy Valentine’s, I thought to no one in particular.

Then I went to bed alone, which wasn’t tragic.

It was just true.

 

Note from author: This piece is entirely fictional, written solely for entertainment purposes and to explore an anti-Valentine’s tone. It contains no personal experiences and no references to real events or individuals whatsoever.