Do I yearn for love or the spectacle of it?
My boyfriend likes to call February an "untouchable month”—a time when he’s the Ken to my Barbie, especially since my birthday falls right on Valentine’s Day. Every year we ask, what’s the plan? Do we invite our friends? Is that restaurant still taking reservations?
Valentine’s Day and my birthday together were a performance of affection and tradition. Back in school, my friends would stuff overflowing pink letters from past crushes and Polaroids on my desk. When I turned 18, I celebrated my swan-themed debut in a hotel, surrounded by friends and family.
I’ve measured the success of a Valentine’s Day celebration not by how I felt but by how dreamy it looked to everyone else. Attempting to participate in these flawless online portrayals and prescriptive handbooks of love, I wonder: When did love shift from something we feel to something we prove?
Perfectionist in love, minimalist in friendships
Born under the Valentine’s spell, I put effort into love yet let friendship happen by chance. I’d disappear as soon as the clock struck four and cheer when plans were canceled. Perhaps I gravitated toward the ease of family and few friendships. Or maybe love, to me, was something slow-burning rather than all-consuming.
On the occasions when I joined friends, I took photos and videos to paint a life more exciting than the quiet reality I actually preferred. Maybe it came from a need to prove, to myself or to others, that I was present even when I wasn’t always fully into it.
I assumed my friends had grown used to my moments of isolation; that they had come to accept it as part of who I was.
Keeping things effortless worked—until love called for something deeper than just being easygoing. Miscommunication overruled honesty, friendships cracked under pressure, and pride sharpened my tongue before I could bite it.
Unlearning the Valentine’s rulebook
Like He Zhiwu, the lovelorn cop from the 1994 film Chungking Express who clung to love through rituals, I treated Valentine’s Day as a gilded sanctuary. A day when I set aside my low-maintenance nature to be fully present in my loved ones’ lives. For years, I locked my gates tight to preserve the rituals: a carefully chosen guest list, letters from friends, the same dimly lit restaurant where candlelight softened everything, a customized pink cake, and a digital camera always at the ready.
Surrounded by flawless online portrayals and prescriptive handbooks of love, I wonder: When did love shift from something we feel to something we prove?
But now, I wonder if I’ve mistaken the gloss of these rituals for depth. If, in curating the experience so perfectly, I’ve let the meaning slip through my fingers.
Birthdays feel like a trade-off. The number on the cake goes up. I welcome new people but also empty spaces where old friends used to be. These moments slow you down enough to remember what you once held close and wonder if you could have held on tighter.
Beyond chocolate boxes and roses
On social media’s binary scale, if our partners don’t stick to the script or we fail to present ourselves just right, it’s automatically a red flag. Valentine’s will exacerbate this pressure; every post is a mix of warmth and silent competition, making you question if you should be doing more.
But today is also about the unpolished moments that can’t be staged. It’s the dinners where the food grows cold because the stories never stop, not because we paused for 15 photos of a latte. It’s in deep talks with my mother as she slices fruit in the kitchen that I forget my phone even exists.
I’ll still capture a moment or two, maybe even workshop a caption with my boyfriend—it’s hard to break the habit—but not if it means missing the real thing.
This day, I’ve learned, is not just for lovers. It’s for the friendships that need just as much tending, the hands that wait to be held.
Today, I was supposed to celebrate at a cute restaurant, yearly proof that I’m not a total recluse. Instead, I’m working from bed, which feels like a small win. While I still love roses and heart-shaped everything, this year, I’m more than satisfied with just surviving and carving out time for the people who’ve always made space for me. For now, that’s enough.
