february 14, 1995 — valentine’s day.

the apartment felt too big without him in it. not big in a real way, but in that hollow, echoing way that only happens when the person who makes a place feel like home is missing. the cheap little living room was lit by a single lamp, casting soft yellow shadows over the couch, the chipped coffee table, the half-dead plant you always forgot to water. your flip phone sat heavy in your hand, screen dark, his name untouched for hours.

3:01 a.m.

you told yourself not to panic. he was probably just late. he was always late. not this late though. but the city outside the window was quiet now, the kind of quiet that makes every bad thought feel louder. valentines day was supposed to mean something. it was supposed to be him coming home with that crooked smile, maybe flowers from the gas station, maybe nothing at all, just him. instead there was nothing but the clock ticking and your heart pounding against your ribs.

you dialed the first hospital with shaking fingers.

your voice wavered, already betraying you. “i’m trying to see if someone was admitted. his name is—” you swallowed before saying it. every ring felt like a countdown. no, they didn’t have him. you thanked them, hung up, and immediately dialed another.

by 3:27 you had called three hospitals. by 3:49 you were crying quietly into your sleeve, trying not to let the neighbors hear you unravel. you kept seeing him in your mind — his laugh, the way he looked when he was half asleep, the way he kissed you like he was afraid you’d disappear. what if something had happened? what if he was alone somewhere, hurt, waiting for someone who wasn’t coming?

the minutes dragged, thick and cruel.

when the door finally rattled at almost five, you flinched so hard you nearly dropped your phone. the lock turned, slow and familiar, and then he was there, stumbling slightly as he pushed the door open. he smelled like cold night air and cheap beer, cheeks flushed, eyes tired but alive.

“hey,” he murmured, a lazy, tipsy smile tugging at his mouth when he saw you. “you’re up.”

you stood frozen, relief crashing into you so hard it almost hurt. anger, how could he do this to you? all that fear had nowhere to go, so it turned into something shaky and hot behind your eyes. you asked him where the hell he was, voice breaking despite yourself.

he frowned, like the question took effort. “i was out with the guys… lost track of time, i guess.” then it hit him — the date, the look on your face. “oh. shit. i didn’t… i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to—”

valentine’s day wasn’t roses or cards or perfect moments. it was this — fear, relief, and holding the person you love like you might never let them go.