TYFD

On February 14, everyone was dating.

Even the ones who said they weren’t.

At a restaurant with a prix fixe menu and candles too tall for the table, a woman sat across from a man she had met two weeks ago. They both agreed it was just dinner. They both pretended not to notice the red roses at every other table. When the waiter asked if they were celebrating anything special, they laughed at the same time and said no.

He ordered wine he didn’t usually drink. She wore a dress she told herself she had worn before. They kept the conversation light. Work. Travel. A show they had both seen. At some point, the air shifted. Not into romance, exactly. Into awareness. Into the realization that this was Valentine’s Day and they were here, together, whether they meant to be or not.

They did not touch across the table. They did not need to. The possibility sat between them, heavy and unspoken.

Across the city, a couple who had been together for four years did not go out. They said they did not believe in Valentine’s Day. They ordered takeout and watched something they had both already seen. Halfway through the episode, she asked if he had gotten her anything, half-joking. He said he thought they agreed they weren’t doing gifts.

She said of course. She said she didn’t care. She turned toward the television. He paused the show and asked if she was upset. She said no.

Later, in the bathroom, she stared at herself in the mirror and tried to decide if wanting something counted as neediness. In the living room, he scrolled past pictures of flowers and candlelit tables and told himself that not participating was a sign of maturity.

Neither of them said what they meant.

In a small apartment with the lights off, a woman lay in bed and watched the evening unfold through other people’s stories. Red dresses. Clinking glasses. Boomerangs of champagne. She double-tapped a photo of someone she once dated and then immediately unliked it.

She had said she didn’t care about Valentine’s Day this year. She had said she was focusing on herself. She had even meant it. But around 9:17 p.m., when her phone stayed quiet, she felt something she could not quite name. Not loneliness exactly. Not jealousy. Just the awareness of being unchosen in a moment designed for choosing.

She put her phone face down and told herself tomorrow would feel normal again.

Somewhere else, a man typed out a message and deleted it three times. He had not spoken to her in months. They had ended gently, the way adults are supposed to. But February 14 felt like a door slightly open. He wrote, thinking of you tonight. He erased it. He wrote, hope you’re well. He erased that too.

He set his phone down. He told himself reaching out would be selfish. He told himself silence was kinder. He did not know which was true.

At a grocery store just before closing, a woman bought herself flowers. Not dramatically. Not to prove anything. She placed them in the cart beside pasta and sparkling water. At checkout, the cashier smiled and asked if they were for someone special. She said yes.

At dinner, a couple on their first Valentine’s Day together tried too hard. They exchanged gifts wrapped carefully, almost formally. He gave her something expensive. She gave him something thoughtful. They both wondered if the other was measuring.

Later, when they were alone, the pressure softened. They laughed at how serious they had both been. For a moment, it felt easy. For a moment, it felt like something that might last.

And at a table by the window, a woman who did not expect to be on a Valentine’s Day date found herself listening more closely than usual. The candlelight made everything look warmer than it was. He asked her if she believed in timing. She said she did not know.

When he walked her home, he held her hand. It felt natural. It also felt like a question.

February 14 does not resolve anything. It does not promise that the person across from you will still be there in March. It does not guarantee that the silence means rejection or that the flowers mean love.

It simply magnifies whatever was already there.

The hope.
The doubt.
The almost.
The not yet.
The maybe.

By midnight, the restaurants begin stacking chairs. The candles burn low. The photos are posted. The messages are sent or left unsent. The night folds in on itself.

Tomorrow, everyone will wake up and return to whatever version of dating they were already living.

But for one evening, everything felt sharper. More exposed. A little more tender than usual.

On February 14, everyone was dating.

and as usual, thank you for dating.