Look, I’m ace. This is the first year I know this, which means it’s the first I know that I may never have a valentine. At least none in the traditional sense.
No lover to get me chocolates. Hubby to bring me flowers as we’re sitting by the fire. No homemade card to reclaim the capitalism of the so-called holiday all for ourselves.
Yet, what saddens me most, is that I don’t care at all.
I don’t feel sorry for the nine-year-old me who just knew that the picture she took during the class party with her one and only crush would be in the yearbook forever. The one she was ecstatic about, but always felt a little odd and she could never pin why.
I don’t long for the ability to love when the selfie he and I took a year ago popped up on my phone. The one I always knew was useless to take.
I don’t wish I had somewhere to be last night. My online community raised over 2.2 million dollars for charity, the most we’ve ever done. I painted for the first time in months, the first items of pride I’ve ever owned. A call from a friend that I haven’t seen since another time, another place, another me.
I used to love Greek mythology. I was a hopeless romantic. I blasted love songs and screamed them with all the air from my lungs.
And I still do. And I did. And I always will.
Because I know that love doesn’t only come in one shade of red. Because I always have loved purple.