I hate Valentine’s Day

Because Cupid missed. Badly.

I hate Valentine’s Day. Not because I don’t believe in saints, or in the performative, anti-love, “capitalism ruined romance” kind of way. I hate it simply because that’s the day Keza (not her real name, she will read this) rejected me.

Keza was dark; beautifully so. Her natural afro did its own thing, and her smile… the kind that makes you forget what you were about to say mid-sentence. But the biggest green flag of all was how she smelled (and yes, if you’ve read Oops… Wrong Word! then you already know exactly what I mean. If you haven’t; well, go read it).

I have had a crush on her since we were teenagers; the kind that finds joy in dumb little things, like being in the same line while walking into class. Or those random moments when you cross paths and she says hi (at least she knew I existed). Even after I had made peace with the idea that I would never date her, years passed and we were still in touch in our early twenties. Friends, officially. Almost best friends, in reality. We talked all the time, every single day, and I have to admit, I was still into her.

That year, Valentine’s Day arrived. I had no girlfriend, obviously, which meant I had no business thinking about chocolates or roses and honestly, why do they triple the prices anyway? Since we were both in the same situation, it was just the two of us at the bus stop, hating on couples holding hands and cringing at men walking around with flowers in public.

But beneath all that hating, I felt the urge to finally say what I’d been hiding for years. It was one of those moments where you tell yourself, “The worst she can say is no.” The thought made my stomach growl, but I knew I had to do it anyway.

So I told her.

I told her I had feelings for her; that I’d liked her since we were kids and that I wanted to see where this could go. But as a safety net, I asked her to be my Valentine instead of outright asking her to be my girlfriend. In my head, it felt safer that way.

She went quiet.

Then she said it.

“You’re like a brother to me.”

She told me the feelings weren’t mutual; that she cared about me, just not in the way I hoped.

I nodded. I smiled. I said I understood.

Our separate buses arrived. I hugged her a little tighter than usual, and then she left. After that, Valentine’s Day was never the same again.

Years later, especially around Valentine’s season, I still think about that moment. Not with sadness, but with curiosity. What exactly was I asking for that day? What is a Valentine, really?

Is it a softer way of asking for a relationship? A one-day title loaded with unspoken expectations? Can you ask a friend to be your Valentine and mean nothing more than companionship? Or does the question already carry weight we pretend not to see?

If you’re married, is your partner automatically your Valentine? If you’re dating, does it come included? And if you’re single, are you really asking for chocolate, or are you asking for clarity?

That day, I wasn’t asking Keza for a date. I was asking for confirmation. For reassurance. For a feeling I hoped lived in both of us. It didn’t.

And that’s why Valentine’s Day still gets to me. It convinces most of us that timing is romance; that one day can hold emotions we haven’t named properly. If you love someone, tell them. Be clear about what you’re looking for. Remember: the worst they can say is no.

As for me, when February 14th rolls around, I’ll probably go for a run or do something equally fun (blink twice if you believe me).