Virginia Peng
Beginning in February of fifth grade, for a span of two months, I sat with three classmates: Aria, Liam and Nick.
Aria sported a new pair of printed spandex leggings every day, announced facts about her hamster and other rodents, always had her hair pulled back in three fluorescent scrunchies and hated chocolate. I knew Liam vaguely from the cornered stool he would sit on in art class and the disengaged tone he would use when called on. After lunch, the oval of skin surrounding Liam’s lips was a telltale sign that he had chowed on a cotton-candy Dum-Dum. Nick had a terrible peanut allergy, so during class birthday parties he only ever ate Oreos. I am certain that to them I was Zoë, the vegetarian with dark brown frizzy hair.
We spent hours together crouched in our child-sized chairs, but were not keen on becoming friends. We were fifth graders and had our established friendships; we were nothing but tablemates.
But, when early February rolled around, I guess I decided I would tell my tablemates that I loved them.
I grew up above a flower shop, and even the days leading up to Feb. 14 echoed with unbearable noise — people in disarray demanding their partner’s favorite flowers — I loved it. I was 10 and an unrealized romantic. Being part of my life meant you would receive a handmade Valentine. Whatever bulk candy I could buy would not encapsulate the minimal relationships I held with my classmates.
On Feb. 14 Aria received a gumball machine of skittles, Liam some Dum-Dums and Nick a pack of double-stuffed Oreos. They thanked me and then we continued to only speak when we had to.
Somewhere along the way, I fell off with my crafts — probably when I found people who show me exactly when it is “worth it” to love. My English lecture buddy will not get a Valentine, nor the girl in my math class that I think is cool. But, there is always something to be said for innocent, superfluous, extravagance.
Fifth grade was the last time I extended the spirit of Valentine’s Day. My teenage relationship with the holiday wavered between being too cool for romance and handing out chocolates to my best friends. The ideals of the non-believers invaded my willingness to show gratitude to my acquaintances, sucking out all the fun of the day.
As I write this on the eve of Valentine’s Day, I’ll also include that I am a hypocrite. I have just sealed my sole Valentine’s card addressed to someone who surely knows they will receive it. I will not extend love to people who are not expecting it.
There’s something so romantic about what’s left unsaid. And, what even is the point of a holiday dedicated to restating how you feel? Valentines is otherwise an excuse for romance — showcasing reluctance — an unfortunate symptom of a holiday dedicated to being vulnerable. So, next year, I hope to reconnect with my childish vulnerabilities and say I love you to everyone.