You never saw the purpose of Valentine’s Day.
Not the way it existed in your current present at least ; commercialized, diluted.
It was all hollow and overindulgent, clumsily wrapped in red and pink, a spectacle of obligation rather than devotion. Love, true fervent and unconditional love, had never been about the shimmering displays, the overpriced chocolates, the grand gestures that meant nothing once the day had fleeted.
Love was in the quiet, the enduring, the things unvoiced but deeply felt. It was in the weight of a gaze that lingered a bit too long, in the spaces between words where oxygen caught in a throat but never quite clearly became a stringed confession.
Libby always poked at you for it.
“You just don’t like it,” she would utter with an inkling of a little grin, the kind that made you feel seen in a way you were not certain was safe.
And you would always hoist your shoulders in a soft shrug and murmur, “It’s not that. I just don’t like what it’s become.”
She would simply hum and nudge your shoulder with hers, as if she believed you, but she did not truly understand. How could she?
Because the truth was, you did care about Valentine’s Day. Just not in the way people expected. Not in the way Libby perhaps expected either.
You cared about it in the way that made you prop down in your kitchen, hours before the evening fell into proper place, with shaking fingers smoothing out the crumpled map you had drawn. Attentively sketched out on a weathered paper, every line a memory, each smudge a moment pressed into time’s embrace, a fingerprint left upon the past.
You had been working on it for weeks, a delicate, intricate thing — every street, every corner, every isolated spot where something small but significant had happened, a memory. Every spot you and Libby had once visited when you were younger, back before life had settled into something more … complex.
Libby was yours before she harbored the title of 'his wife' and 'their mother.' Before names and roles defined her, there was only her and you, always.
You had marked the park where you once sat on a summer afternoon, sipping milkshakes and debating the meaning of constellations. Your free hand had been extended to the skies, tracing invisible lines between the stars that would soon scatter, burst, irradiate light across the world's deep blue canvas.
But the only light you had recalled was the glimpse of her shining browns and that soft grin; her lips generously curled back to reveal pearly whites at your insistence that constellations were nothing more than human longing doused against the heavens, stories written in flames, yearning to be read. To be known.
Or the little bookstore she dragged you into on a whim, where she had disappeared into the rows of books, only to return moments later with a novel pressed against her chest, eyes bright with certainty. She had shoved a novel into your hold with a lovely grin and told you, “This one will change your life.” Her fingers had woven around yours for a second too long. And you, helpless against the silent tug of her, had let her buy it for you without a doubt.
Up to this day it remained your favorite read.
Or then there was the road, the narrow stretch of asphalt that had become its own small world one cloudy day. When the skies cracked open and the rain came down in heavy pours. Where it had poured so hard you had to pull over into someplace random, and she had crawled into the spacious backseat, tugging you along with her. Sprawled out, bubbles of breathless laughters and whispers of half-hearted words, she had laid her head on your lap while your fingers found place in the wisps of her hair.
The rain had drummed against the roof in a steady, rhythmic pulse, drowning out the illusion of time beyond the car doors. Her own fingers drew patterns in every shape and form over your knee, her breath hot against the fabric of your jeans before she shifted to look up at you. Your best friend had seemed mesmerized by the sight of you, reaching up to push a loose tendril behind your ear before gently holding your hand, the joined bundle of digits resting against her stomach. It felt intense and natural, creating a spark in you that would eventually grow stronger and stronger.
For the first time, you had let yourself believe. That perhaps she felt it too.
Small places. Little moments. But moments that meant something. Touched by the hearth of your trembling hands, the pulsating of your yearning heart. A small, insignificant paper to anyone else. But to you — and maybe, hopefully to her — it was more.
She had called you after dinner. Something brief she mentioned the previous day, a wisp of what hope in her words; “Drew planned something special. Said he was taking me to this fancy restaurant. It surprised me really. I didn’t expect him to … indulge in this, especially when money’s so tight.”
Her voice was softer than usual when you had picked up the phone and brought it to your ear.
“Come over?”
She did not say much else, but she did not need to. You heard it, dense in her speech, something pressing into the gap between low syllables.
So you went. Of course you did. You always did.
The Thatcher household was dim when you arrived, the subtle glow of the porch light seeping through casting silhouettes across her disheartened features. She was already curled up on the corner of the couch when you stepped inside, her cable knit turtleneck enveloping her frame, her bare feet tucked beneath her.
A half-empty coffee mug of wine perched on the table, untouched for some time. Beside it was an empty mug reserved for you, and that made you smile.
She recognized you by scent alone as you walked into the living room, the corners of her mouth lifting into something soft, something meant only for you and she looked up.
“Hi.”
You maintained eye contact, cheek hoisted, hands stuffed in your coat’s pockets. The fingers of your right hand fidgeted with the rumpled corners of the folded paper there. It matched the thunderous thumps of your confided heartbeat. “Hi.”
You settled beside her, into the space that has always belonged to you. Even before the interior of this place became a part of something called her home. Home to her really was whenever she was with you. A soul that belonged next to hers, warm, familiar, right.
Before you could even ask the question, ‘how was dinner?’, she only said, "It was fine.”
“Fine” — that word again. The one she utilized when she did not want to admit that it was anything but fine.
An issue emerged. An issue always emerged when it came to him. Drew had forgotten to make dinner reservations. The restaurant they sounded up at was too loud, too crowded, too impersonal.
She inhaled, your fragrance caught within her throat, soothing her chest’s turmoil and into her awaiting lungs before leisurely exhaling, like she had been waiting for this. Waiting for you.
You did not pry. Instead, you slightly hunched over and reached for the bottle of wine, poured the liquid into your mug, grabbed and tilted it towards her in small 'cheers' before taking a swig of it.
And so, on the remnants of Valentine’s Day, you found yourself on Libby’s couch, a half-finished cup of whirling wine in your palm as she spoke to you. The lamplight caught the soft halo her voluptuous cloud of curls created, the auburn darkened to a soft chestnut, and the air between you felt thick and ardent.
Seeping into your bones and remaining, not always burning, only smoldering, fractures of ember sizzling in the dip of your ribcage. Her presence made your world gentler, something that automatically commanded adoration, too vibrant to be disregarded.
And then there were her eyes — bourbon-rich treasures, catching the lights like the last hues of dusk. She gazed at you, and it ached.
Ached because she moved through life with a fire that never consumed but ignited and sweetly scorched golden. Even when fatigue hurled within her bones, even when it was evident to you that the exhaustion and worry in her life was crumbling the edges of who she was.
You wondered if she could perceive the shift of gravity between you. If she noticed the way your breath caught when she looked at you like that, all soft and searching and she was on the verge of uttering something but thought better of it.
“God, why does love feel like I gotta fight for it?” She muttered against the cup’s rim. “I already have the house. The family. The husband. Why … why isn’t it easy?”
She was not looking at you anymore. Her eyes had dropped to the scarlet liquid within, her thumb running absently along the curve of the ceramic. You always witnessed this sight during these nights; they were mainly made for her to utter the things she could not in tomorrow's daylight.
Hurt and sadness colored her features. And every time that expression came, so did a sole conclusion: those two concepts did not belong on her face. But it was there, because he was to blame.
And you despised it. Despised him every time for it. You despised that she even had to wonder such things.
Because Libby Thatcher conveyed a kind of radiance that made you wonder how anyone could hold something this precious and not tremble at the mere thought of losing it. How could they allow it to slip through their fingers when they should have clung with their bare flesh and bone, willing to be seared just to keep it close and bask in its existence?
Drew was blessed to cradle something, someone as precious as her.
How can Drew be so unappreciative to the gift of her, to the quiet miracle of existing beside her? How can he not drown her in all the love she deserved, not just on this day marked for a silly display of devotion but every single breathing moment, from every waking day to coming nightfall that began and ended with Libby resting beside him, unaware of how grandly she should be cherished?
You would crawl through dirt and dust and call it sacred ground if she so much as stepped there, because what was love if not worship, and yearning if not devotion?
But Drew did not know what he held, never understood that love was not something to be assumed, nor yearning for something to be ignored. Love was not a thing to be taken for granted but a thing to be tended, and he had never known how to kneel before it, how to cherish what others — you would have bled to hold.
“Love shouldn’t make you feel alone or one sided, Libby,” you strung together carefully. “It shouldn’t have to make you question it … it’s fulfilling.”
Libby stared at you, you swore she saw right through you in the way her gaze pierced. That she could hear everything you did not utter into existence. That she knew, somehow, that she had always known.
But then she smiled. Light, a little wistful.
You swallowed hard, the thought coiled tight around your heart while your fingers slipped into your pocket and grazed the folded paper tucked safely within. It was worn soft from being anxiously handled too many times. Your palm felt clammy, your pulse a restless thing beneath your skin as you extended it toward her, uncertain, unsteady.
“I, uhm.” You clear your throat, heart attempting to crawl its way out and spatter every feeling you were currently undergoing. “I made you something.”
Her brow quirked in intrigue. “What’s this?”
“A Valentine’s gift."
She chuckled softly, a bit perplexed. “You didn't have to—”
“I wanted to.”
Libby was reluctant, eyes squinting. She then looked down and unfolded it carefully until it splayed across her lap, and she smoothed out the creases with delicate touch, afraid to damage what had been given.
A stillness. A breath, drawn and held.
"You drew this?" Color flushed her cheeks, something so unreadable but familiar all in one, a shy wonder dusted. "You remembered all of this?"
"Of course I remember, Libby." you chuckled quietly, and watched as marveling fingertips wandered along the lines, the tiny notations, the little sketches you had added in the corners, below, above, besides.
She tilted her head, studying it, and then breathed out a small laugh. "I—" she began, hesitating, then shook her head with something between amusement and disbelief. "I ... forgot about some of these."
You did not say anything at first, watching the way she lingered over each point on the map, her fingers stopping at the edges like the recollections might slip between the cracks of time.
All the places you thought she had left behind, places she claimed to have forgotten.
But the way her lips parted, the way she became breathless when her finger brushed over that small, worn diner; the two of you once spent an entire night just talking in the parking lot, talking until the world outside had gone dark and the sun was starting to peek, until you both had realized but were unfazed that you stayed long past what you were supposed to and your jacket had been wrapped around her shoulders while her arms loosely but devoted to keep you warm as well tangled around your stomach, told you otherwise.
She remembered all of it, if not more. She had never not remembered. But saying she forgot was easier than admitting she had held onto them just as tightly as you had. You had huddled into every part of her life and intertwined among all of her heartstrings, in a way she never wanted to change.
Her clutch on the paper tightened briefly, and she swallowed. "I—" She sighed, shaking her head lightly. "I didn’t get you anything."
You grinned, soft and sweet. "You’re here, Libs. That’s more than enough for me."
There was a halt. Her gentle exhale breezed across your face. It was possible your ears might be ringing as if straining to hear the sound of Libby's heart — dying for a clue to what she was feeling.
The shift in her face is subtle, unmistakable. Tenderness and a weightier sorrow, something unsaid pushing at the corners of her expression. And then, before you can fully grasp it, she moved, leaned in, her head finding its place upon your shoulder, drawn there by something inevitable.
Warm, familiar, right.
Soft, barely more than a whisper of affectionate gratitude escaped her lips. "Thank you."
You granted yourself the privilege of basking into this. Into the aroma of her hair, the existence that has always been home to your soul. You closed your eyes, flushed cheek grazing the crown of her head, and tilted to place a kiss there; tender, fleeting, full of everything you could not bring yourself to say. It was second nature, instinct, something you do without thinking.
She never pulled away when you did. She only did what you did; basked in it.
The fear coiled in your throat, the same fear that had lived inside you for as long as you have lived loving her. Do you want to know?
Would it be better to live in this space of not knowing than to ask the question and hear an answer that might shatter you?
Silence unfurled between you, profound and brimming, teetering on the edge of something brittle. Awaiting, longing, hoping, fearing.
You could ask her now. You could bridge the space between you, let your fingers find hers, let the weight of years seep into the silence until it bended, until it finally clasped.
But you did not allow that. "You should go to bed already, okay?" your words were murmured against her skin. "I'll come by tomorrow."
She did not answer immediately.
Instead, she retracted just enough to look at you again, her expression obscure, yet her eyes, God, her eyes, were lodged with something that made your innards twist. It upset her to see you go. You felt silly for thinking it, even if she did not voice it. She always hoped you would stay, stay with her.
You rose and adjusted your coat, moving toward the door with a reluctance that felt almost unbearable. You felt her eyes on you, that quiet pull, that familiar sense of longing slithering and tightening around your spine and rooting you to the ground.
“Y/n.”
She was still watching you, mouth opening, eyes conflicted. Molten hot, valves working overtime, ribbons of affection tightening across her chest and awaiting to be revealed.
But then she blinked out of it, shoulders settling, and instead, she offered only a soft, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Y/n.”
Deep browns swaddled your heart in their warmth. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Libby,” you returned in equal measure.
The sharpness of an exhale cut into your throat, leaving no passage for words to express when your smile came to view once more. Nestling itself into the quiet corners of her heart you always occupied. The kind that told her, even without words, that while you never fully stay physically, you always, always had and always will crawl back to her.