Love: My Valentine Fantasy 

I always imagined love as a refuge, a place to hide when the world got too heavy, when it felt like God had decided I was strong enough to carry only the sharpest parts of existence. Valentine’s Day became almost holy, a day when loneliness loosens its grip, when even the broken feel chosen, if only for a few hours. I didn’t just imagine it. I built it. Feeding it with longing, memory, and the ache of being left behind, until it grew flesh, until I could almost touch it. Love came just after God. At first, it was a sedative, a balm against the gnawing ache in my chest but pain, when left unchecked, mutates. And so did my love. It became something aware. My name is Ivie. I say it like it still belongs to me. I used to be Ivie, before something inside me cracked open and rearranged itself into someone quieter, harder, more careful. Ivie, 22, Introverted, quiet, observant. I work at a flower shop, ironically surrounded by symbols of love I’ve never held. I tie ribbons around bouquets for women who will be kissed at their doorsteps. I strip thorns from roses pressed between pages and called forever. I pass delicate arrangements to nervous men and watch hope tremble in their fingers. And every year, I wait. For him. Paul. Abandonment isn’t new to me. My father left without warning, my mother loved me in theory but never in touch, boys came and went, as if I were a temporary waiting room. After a while, you wonder if you’re the door, the thing people leave behind. So I built someone who wouldn’t leave. In my mind, Paul knows when my breathing shifts, before I even realize it. He appears when the silence gets unbearable, he says the right things, always, he doesn’t disappoint, he doesn’t leave. But Paul only fully exists on Valentine’s Day. I don’t remember when he first appeared. I remember the first night I needed him. Three years ago, Valentine’s night, my boyfriend canceled our plans with a message,”You’re too much, too emotional, too intense, too needy.” I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling something inside me cave in. Then I heard it. “I’m not going anywhere.” Soft. Certain. Steady. Paul has never made me feel too much. When the world feels loud, I feel him behind me, warmth against my back, breath brushing my ear. He whispers that I’m chosen, wanted, not an inconvenience. The rest of the year, he’s faint. A shadow at the edge of my room, a thought that doesn’t feel entirely mine. But on February 14th, he feels real enough to touch. Last year, I swear I felt his fingers weave through mine as we walked. I could smell his cologne, dark and clean. I felt his breath against my skin when he murmured, “See? The world is softer for you today.” Later, I checked the security camera outside my building. I watched myself smiling at nothing. This year, he is louder. Stronger. “If you want me to stay,” he said last night, “you have to let go of what’s holding you here.” I thought he meant fear. Trauma. Old bruises no one sees. Then Amanda stopped me at work. “Who were you talking to yesterday after closing?” My stomach dropped, “No one.” She frowned. “You were laughing like someone was right there.” Someone was, he always is. That night, Paul led me to the rooftop but I don’t remember climbing the stairs, the city glittered beneath us like spilled jewels. Candles were lit in a circle I swear I didn’t arrange. He stood close behind me, his hands slide over mine, guiding me toward the edge. “With me,” he whispers, “you’ll never feel abandoned again.” Abandoned. The word knots my throat I tried to see his face, but it blurs. Still, I feel him and it is enough. “The world doesn’t deserve you,” he murmurs. “Stay with me instead.” There’s peace in his voice, dangerous peace. The kind that makes endings feel beautiful. I look down, the city lights blur. My chest feels hollow, weightless, almost gentle. Romantic. Final. Then something inside me fractures. Amanda handing me coffee, the stray cat waiting outside the shop, the smell of rain on asphalt. Ordinary, imperfect, real things. “Paul,” I whisper, trembling, “why do you only come when I’m falling apart?” The wind grows colder. “You created me,” he says, not cruel, just true. “I was there when he left, when your father packed his bags, every time you told yourself you were too much.” My pulse roared. “You didn’t want to be alone,” he says softly. “So you made someone who wouldn’t leave.” The candles flicker violently. “You’re not love,” I breathe. “I am what love feels like without risk,” he replies. Suddenly, I understand. He isn’t a savior, he is escape. Every part of me that would rather disappear than be hurt again. “If you don’t choose me,” he says, edge in his voice, “I’ll fade.” If he fades, I live in a world where love is inconsistent, people leave, and I might be shattered again. If I choose him, I will never feel abandoned but I will never feel anything at all. I step back. The air snaps. “No,” he whispers, and for the first time, I hear fear. “You’re loneliness dressed in roses,” I say. His outline flickers, candles die one by one. “You’ll call for me again,” he says as he dissolves. “You always do.” Then he’s gone. The rooftop is empty, the city is alive again. My hands shake, but I am still here. February 15th, morning. Everything is quiet. Safe. For a moment. Then warmth settles behind me, a breath on my neck, a voice softer than ever. “I never said I was tied to Valentine’s Day.” I don’t turn. Because I don’t know which would break me more, That he’s real. Or that I still need him.