#Valentine’s Day and I’m Lost Without a Person or a Season
It’s Valentine’s Day tomorrow and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that.
I’ve been playing “Evergreen” by Omar Apollo on repeat for days now. Not because I want to. Because I can’t stop. Because every single line feels like someone reached into my chest and put words to the specific kind of pain I’ve been carrying for a month and some change.
The 3AM Truth
A few nights ago I was sitting in my car at 3am. Parked outside my own house. Engine off, heat blasting, just sitting there crying. Not the kind of crying you do in movies. The real kind. The kind where you can’t catch your breath and your face hurts and you’re asking questions out loud to nobody.
“Why was she so mean to me when I tried so hard?”
“Why do I care so much?”
“Why am I not man enough?”
That last one is the one that won’t leave me alone. It’s been sitting in my head every single day since I cut her off. This feeling like I’m less than. Like I’m not masculine enough. Like something about me is fundamentally wrong.
What She Called Me
In my last two relationships, I’ve been called gay. Hit. Abused emotionally in ways that targeted the most tender parts of who I am. And I’m not saying I was perfect — I know I messed up in my own ways, said things I shouldn’t have, let my emotions get the best of me when I felt like I was standing on constantly moving ground.
But there’s something about being called gay by someone you love that cuts different when you grew up being called a faggot by your own sister. When you’ve spent your whole life defending your masculinity from people who were supposed to protect it.
I’m not gay. I’m not feminine. I just care. I actually try. And somehow in this world, that gets weaponized against you by the people you’re trying to love.
The Cycle I Couldn’t See
It wasn’t even a relationship at first. Just six months of “talking” — that limbo space where you’re building something real but nobody will name it. She had two kids. A whole life with weight on it before I even showed up. And I didn’t just like her — I stepped into her entire atmosphere.
The cycle went like this: fight, makeup, sweetness, then sudden brutal coldness.
And every time things got good again, I thought THIS is the real her. The rest was just stress. But I was wrong. The cycle was the relationship. The push and pull wasn’t a phase — it was the structure.
When she was drowning — sick, overwhelmed, dysregulated, scared — I was everything. I was safe. I was needed. But the second the crisis passed, I was too much. I was annoying. I was a problem.
I wasn’t a partner. I was an emergency contact.
And emergency contact feels important. It feels like love. But it’s not the same thing as being chosen.
How She Used My Past Against Me
I told her things I don’t tell people. About being called slurs growing up. About the specific ways my family made me feel less than for just being sensitive, for feeling things deeply, for caring.
I handed her that story not as ammunition. I was asking for care.
And she filed it away. And when we’d fight — when I’d try to tell her “this hurt me,” she’d pull it back out. Call me feminine. Call me gay. Go straight for the identity I’ve spent my whole life defending.
That’s when it stopped being “hard” and started being unsafe.
Not unsafe like physical danger. Unsafe like I couldn’t be human without it being used against me later.
⚠️ Warning If someone uses your vulnerability as a weapon, that’s not conflict — that’s control.
The Courtroom
Every time I tried to say “you hurt me,” I didn’t get repair. I got cross-examined.
My pain didn’t get held. It got put on trial. She’d drag up old mistakes, flip the narrative, make it about me being the problem until the original hurt disappeared completely under the rubble.
And after enough of that, you stop bringing things up. Not because you don’t care. Because you learn that honesty costs too much.
That’s how someone keeps you quiet without forbidding you from speaking. They just make speaking feel pointless.
Why I Left
I didn’t leave because I stopped loving her.
I left because I couldn’t keep paying with my self-respect for occasional closeness.
That’s actually harder than leaving someone you hate. Because I still miss her. I still think about her every single day. My mind reaches for her at 2am, during snowstorms, when the world feels small and I want warmth.
But I know myself well enough now to know that reaching out would set me back. That opening that door would give me hope where there shouldn’t be hope. It would keep me stuck.
So I don’t move. I let the urge rise and fall. And every time I do that, I’m quietly building trust with myself that I didn’t have before.
What I’m practicing right now
What the Song Means (Yearning Edition)
The song that keeps finding me right now is “A Couple Minutes” by Olivia Dean — and if you want to hear the exact ache I’m talking about, here it is:
“A Couple Minutes” by Olivia Dean on Spotify
It captures a specific kind of yearning that doesn’t get talked about enough: the kind where you don’t even want the relationship back… you just want one normal moment again.
Not closure. Not a big speech.
Just two minutes where you get to look at them and feel like the world makes sense.
“Turn around, since when are you smoking now?”
You bump into them and immediately notice something’s changed. It’s such a small detail, but it matters.
You used to know everything about this person, and now there are whole parts of their life you missed.
It’s that gut-punch realization that time passed — and they kept living without you.
“It’s been a while… did you end up moving house?”
On the surface, it’s small talk.
But underneath it is the real question: what have I missed?
Who are you now?
And because you only have minutes, you reach for whatever facts you can grab — like if you collect enough updates, you can pretend you’re still close.
“You’re the only one who knows that name”
This hits in that private place.
There are inside jokes, nicknames, expressions — a whole secret language that only existed between you two.
No one else in the world shares that exact intimacy. It doesn’t just vanish because you’re not together.
“I just wanna know if you’re okay”
Stripped of all pretense — this is what you actually care about.
Not the updates. Not the explanations.
Just: I still want you to be okay.
“Only have a couple minutes… it already kinda feels like back on your sofa”
Time collapses.
You’re standing wherever you are, but emotionally you’re back in their space.
The comfort floods back instantly — muscle memory of intimacy.
“Of course I still care, love’s never wasted when it’s shared”
This is the mature realization: just because it ended doesn’t mean it was a mistake.
Every moment you loved them mattered. Every laugh, every late-night talk, every time you chose them — it shaped you.
“And although it’s over, I’ll always be there”
I’m not in your daily life anymore, but if you ever truly need me, the care didn’t disappear.
The door isn’t locked — it’s just closed for my own peace.
“We could talk if we want now… I already know it’s no good for me”
The option exists — you could reopen the story.
But you know yourself well enough to know it would set you back.
It would give you hope where there shouldn’t be hope. It would keep you stuck.
“It’s alright, think I’m fine with the silence”
You’re trying to convince yourself.
Maybe the silence is the healthier choice — not because you don’t care, but because you care and you don’t want to bleed again.
“There’s some good in goodbyes”
Goodbyes create necessary space for new beginnings.
They force growth. They stop you from shrinking yourself just to keep someone close.
“In your heart, every part of me, we’ll let go…”
This is acceptance.
Keep the memories of who I was to you. Hold them gently.
But don’t hold onto me now. Let me become whoever I’m going to be next.
That’s why it hits so hard: the whole song holds two truths at once.
I will always love you.
And we are not meant to be together.
Both are real. Both matter. And there’s something profound about being able to wish someone well while also protecting your own peace.
Where I’m At Now
It’s been a month and some change. Some days I’m okay. Some days I’m sad but good. Some days I cry listening to this song and it feels like the grief is going to swallow me whole.
I’m not over it. I’m just learning to hold two truths at once:
I still care.
And I still can’t go back.
Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day and I don’t have a person. I don’t even have a season — I’m stuck in this in-between space where I’m not broken enough to be falling apart, but I’m not healed enough to be okay.
I’m just… here. Missing someone. Protecting myself from that same someone. Trying to remember that leaving was the right choice even when it still feels wrong.
What I’ve Learned
I went in thinking being needed was the same as being loved.
I’m coming out knowing the difference.
Here’s the cleanest way I can explain it to myself:
Swipe sideways to see all columns →
| What it felt like | What it actually was | What I need now |
|---|---|---|
| “I’m important to her” | I was useful during emergencies | Consistent care |
| “We’re building something” | The cycle was the structure | Stable love |
| “I’m being strong” | I was tolerating disrespect | Boundaries |
I thought masculinity meant being less emotional, not showing weakness, staying calm under pressure.
Now I know masculinity is being steady with your emotions instead of being owned by them. It’s choosing peace over proof. It’s forgiving someone not because they earned it but because I don’t want to carry it anymore.
And I’m learning — slowly, painfully — that my expectations weren’t crazy. That I wasn’t “too emotional.” That wanting to be heard without being put on trial isn’t asking for too much.
The relationship wasn’t just “hard.”
It was a place where my pain became a weapon in someone else’s hand.
And I’m out of that place now.
To Anyone Reading This
If you’re going into Valentine’s Day alone after a breakup, I see you.
If you’re questioning whether leaving was the right choice because you still miss them, I see you.
If someone used your vulnerabilities against you and now you’re wondering if you can ever trust anyone with your real self again, I see you.
Love’s never wasted when it’s shared. Even when it hurts like hell. Even when it didn’t work out. Even when they couldn’t hold it carefully.
You’re not weak for still feeling it. You’re not stupid for still missing them.
You’re just human. With a real heart. In a world that doesn’t always know what to do with people who love that deeply.
Written at whatever time it is on February 13th, 2026, still not over it, still protecting myself, still hoping tomorrow doesn’t hurt as much as I think it will.
Melvin
Writer at WiredLiving. Sharing insights on technology, development, and innovation.
Gallery
