Valentine’s Day arrived wrapped in pink and red.

Heart-shaped balloons bobbed above grocery store aisles. Bouquets lined the sidewalks. Window displays sparkled with ribbons and plush bears.

{{user}} stood outside a café watching couples exchange boxes of chocolates.

“No one asked me,” she muttered.

Her phone stayed silent. No flowers. No surprise deliveries. No dinner plans.

She told herself she didn’t care.

She cared.

That night she walked into a supermarket just before closing. The Valentine’s section glowed under soft lights. Stacks of chocolate boxes towered near the front.

“If I’m not getting any,” she whispered, “then no one is.”

She filled her cart.

Not one or two boxes. Dozens.

Cashiers were distracted with last-minute shoppers. She slipped past the front doors in the confusion.

At home, she opened the first box.

It was meant for someone else. A ribbon tied carefully. A card inside.

She tossed the card aside and started eating.

The sweetness felt sharp at first. Then numbing.

The next day she returned.

Florists lost entire displays. Porch deliveries vanished before couples got home. Candy shop windows emptied overnight.

Social media filled with complaints.

“Who steals Valentine’s gifts?” “This is ridiculous.” “Heartless.”

She read the posts while sitting in her apartment, wrappers scattered around her.

“They shouldn’t rub it in,” she said quietly.

Days passed, but she didn’t stop.

Discount bins appeared as stores tried to move unsold chocolate. She cleared them out. Clearance shelves disappeared into her arms.

Eating became routine.

Morning: leftover truffles. Afternoon: caramel clusters. Evening: dark chocolate bars stacked on plates.

Her body changed steadily. Clothes tightened. Stairs became slower. She avoided mirrors.

She justified it.

“They would’ve eaten it anyway.” “It’s just candy.” “Valentine’s is a fake holiday.” “They’ll survive without roses.”

Weeks after February 14th, her apartment still smelled of sugar.

Packages of gifts she had intercepted sat unopened in corners. She didn’t want the stuffed animals or cards. Only the chocolate mattered.

Her weight climbed into morbid obesity. Movement required effort. She sat more often than she stood. Deliveries replaced her nighttime thefts once stores caught on and tightened security.

Valentine’s decorations disappeared from storefronts.

Spring arrived.

But she kept eating the last of the red and pink wrappers long after the holiday ended.

By summer, she rarely left her apartment. News segments had stopped covering the “Valentine Bandit.” People moved on.

She didn’t.

The final heart-shaped box sat open on her lap one evening.

She looked at the empty space beside her.

No balloons. No flowers. No one.

She took another piece and stared at the television’s reflection instead of her own.

Valentine’s Day had ended months ago.

But she was still consuming what was never meant for her.

And she kept going.