A Lonely Valentine’s Day
I told myself I didn’t care.
It’s just a Saturday in red lipstick.
Just another algorithm pushing roses
between dog videos and engagement rings.
But I wore the sweater he once said
made my eyes look softer.
Left space on my kitchen counter
like something might arrive there.
All day my phone lit up—
Target sales,
group chats,
a “u up?” from a man
who doesn’t know my middle name.
Not him.
I passed the chocolate aisle
pretending I was above it.
Godiva stacked like small, edible promises.
Strawberries sweating in plastic.
A cardboard Cupid aiming at women
who already know how this goes.
I wanted something simple.
A box.
A ribbon.
His name in my notifications
without irony.
I would’ve pretended to be surprised.
Would’ve said,
“Oh my God, you didn’t have to.”
Like I hadn’t been checking the mail
every hour.
Instead I buy my own dark chocolate,
the expensive kind,
tell myself this is empowerment.
Self-love.
Healing.
But it melts in my mouth
like the things I don’t say—
like how I memorize his pauses,
how I read into punctuation,
how I would fold myself small
just to fit in his plans.
Outside, someone’s laughing.
A door closes.
A kiss I don’t see happens.
I sit on my couch in red socks,
scrolling through filtered happiness,
wondering if he ever almost bought them.
If he stood in that aisle,
picked up the heart-shaped box,
and put it back.
Midnight comes soft.
No knock.
No ribbon.
No apology.
Just me,
and the faint taste of cocoa,
and the quiet admission
that I wanted to be chosen—
not because I begged,
not because I stayed,
but because he couldn’t imagine
this day
without me.
Maybe next year.
Or maybe next time
I’ll stop waiting for someone
to hand me sweetness
and find a love
that shows up
with chocolate
and certainty.
🫂 The good dark chocolate was definitely the way to go! ❤️
Beautiful, Maxi!