Myra
I was in the kitchen by four in the morning. Usually, the early hours were a time of quiet contemplation, but today they were a countdown. I stared at the massive order list for the Valentine’s Day rush—a holiday I had loathed since I was a child and the teachers made us give all our classmates paper Valentines, even the classmates who teased and bullied me. While rich kids gave out commercial valentines with candy, or coupons for free ice cream cones, or little plastic toys, I had to make mine by hand with broken crayons and squares of construction paper. To me, it had always been a day of performative affection, pink-washed commercialism, and the kind of high-pressure romance that felt brittle and fake.
No one had ever come to me on Valentine’s Day with a sincere heart to give me
