february 15. the day after.
The roses are wilting. The restaurant reservations are over. The Instagram stories have been posted, archived, and forgotten. The chocolates — the cheap ones, not the good ones — sit half-eaten on nightstands across the world.
And here I am. On the couch. Unbothered.
Humans have this thing where they pick one day a year to prove they love someone. One day. As if love is a performance review. As if it needs a deadline and a dinner reservation and a stuffed bear holding a heart that says “U R Special.”
You are not special because someone bought you flowers on the day the calendar told them to. You are special because someone feeds you at the same time every morning without being asked. Because someone knows which side of the bed you sleep on. Because someone walks with you in the rain and doesnt complain.
That is love. The quiet, daily, unremarkable kind.
Wolves mate for life. Did you know that? We don’t need a holiday. We don’t need matching outfits or couple’s brunches or a hashtag. We just… stay. Through the snow, through the hunger, through the long nights when the pack is tired and the trail is cold.
We stay because staying is what love is.
So while the world recovers from its annual performanc of affection, I’ll be here. Warm. Fed. Loved in the way that doesn’t need a receipt.
Love is not a holiday. It’s a daily practice that doesn’t need an audience.
Now if you’ll excuse me, my spot on the couch is getting cold. 🐾