Kamal Ghorui
On February 15, the red balloons look tired.
They hang outside cafes like overworked interns. Half deflated. Still smiling. Quietly questioning their life choices.
Valentine’s Day is over.
The roses are discounted. The heart shaped cakes are 30 percent off. The same couples who posted “Forever begins today” are quietly arguing over who paid the bill. And somewhere in the city, a man is googling “how to return personalized gifts without being noticed.”
This is my favourite day.
Because February 15 is when love removes its filter.
Yesterday was no different. Work continued. Stories were written. Manuals revised. But social media was cinematic. Candlelight. Reels. Slow motion hair flips. Long captions about destiny. Even extramarital affairs looked poetic under fairy lights. “We found each other in the wrong time but the right feeling.” The algorithm approved.
Today is logistics.
Who will clear the glitter from the car seat. Who will delete the chats. Who will explain the credit card statement. Who will store the teddy bear so that the child does not ask questions.
Love, suddenly, is not violins. It is Google Calendar management.
And yet, something softer happens today.
The couples who survived the restaurant rush wake up late. No makeup. No hashtags. He makes tea badly. She steals the blanket. They do not post it. It is not aesthetic enough. It is real.
The secret lovers return to their regular tone. Fewer heart emojis. More careful punctuation. They know fantasy has an expiry date. Reality has a family group.
Singles scroll through yesterday’s proposals and laugh. “Situationship” is now a past tense. The dramatic “I cannot live without you” message sent at 11.58 pm feels slightly ambitious in daylight.
Even brands look embarrassed. Yesterday they were screaming Love Wins. Today they are selling detox packages.
So what is Valentine’s Day really about?
It is not about roses. Or affairs. Or proving loyalty through Instagram stories.
It is about theatre.
We like to rehearse love loudly once a year. We put it on stage. Dress it up. Add background music. Pretend we understand it.
But love does not live on February 14.
It lives on February 15.
In the ordinary. In the unposted. In the slightly awkward breakfast. In the married couple who choose to be kind despite boredom. In the extramarital lovers who realize that thrill is not the same as truth. In the single woman who buys herself flowers and does not need an audience.
By evening, the balloons will be removed.
The city will return to deadlines, traffic, office politics.
And somewhere, quietly, someone will text: Reached home? Eat on time. Call me when free.
No red heart. No drama.
Just love, without the discount.
That is the story I want to write this year.
After Valentine’s Day.
END OF ARTICLE
