We Don’t Really Do Valentine’s Day Anymore

When you’re just starting to date, Valentine’s Day is a prop.
An excuse.
A socially approved moment to finally say,
“Do you want to be with me?”

It’s courage wrapped in roses.
Expectation dressed as romance.
A receipt pretending to be a feeling.

Because the truth is: Valentine’s Day isn’t romantic — it’s marketed.
A seasonal drop for people with hearts.
A deadline for affection.
A glittery reminder that if you don’t buy love, you might not deserve it.

And in the beginning, that works.
You need the script.
You need the permission.
You need a date on the calendar that says: Go on. Do the scary thing. Choose someone out loud.

But after more than nine years together?

We don’t need a calendar to tell us when to care.

And maybe that sounds cynical.
Maybe it sounds unromantic.

It’s not.
It’s just… evolved.

Because after enough years, love stops living where the world can sell it.
It moves into the places nobody can package:

The kitchen.
The quiet evenings.
The tone of your voice.
The small decisions that don’t make good content.

Valentine’s wants a performance.
A table booking.
A bouquet.
A caption.

Long love doesn’t care about any of that.

Long love cares about whether you’re okay.
Even when you’re trying to sound like you are.

This year, on the 13th, Julian went out with a friend.
No dramatic build-up. No pre-booked dinner. No red balloons.
Just a normal evening — the kind that doesn’t come with a playlist.

On his way back, he called me.

And from my voice alone, he knew I wasn’t great.
A bit under the weather. A bit flat.
That specific kind of quiet that doesn’t announce itself — it just sits there.

He didn’t say much.
No speech.
No “cheer up.”
No fixing.

He just showed up with my favourite apple pie from Mollie’s.

The one that tastes almost exactly like the one I always had in New York.
The one that reminds me of home in a way that’s hard to explain.
The one that makes everything feel softer for a moment — like the edges of the day aren’t so sharp anymore.

No Instagram story.
No “Happy Valentine’s” speech.
No performance.

Just:
“I heard it in your voice.”

And that’s the thing.

After years together, love stops being a headline day.
It becomes small interventions.
Quiet observations.
Knowing the tone shift before the sentence finishes.
Knowing when “I’m fine” means “please be gentle.”
Bringing apple pie without being asked — not because it’s romantic, but because it’s accurate.

So is it good that we don’t really “do” Valentine’s Day anymore?

I don’t think we replaced it.
I think we outgrew the idea that love should be concentrated into one date — like affection is something you schedule and outsource to a purchase.

Because when you’ve shared nine years — cities, health scares, growth, change, normal Tuesdays — you realise something:

One day isn’t romantic enough.

I don’t want one grand gesture.
I don’t want love that shows up for the camera and disappears on a weekday.

I want someone who hears it in my voice.

Every time.

Softer poetic ending (to close it gently)

And maybe that’s what love becomes, if you let it.

Not louder.
Not bigger.
Not more expensive.

Just more true.

A kind of devotion that doesn’t need a holiday.
Because it lives in the ordinary days —
the ones nobody decorates.

The 13th.
The Tuesday.
The quiet evening.
The moment someone comes home
and makes you feel like you’re not alone in your own body.

That’s the romance I’ll take.
Every time.