Here, With You

Red Velvet & River Lights

Valentine's Day began in steam and confession.

The shower ran hotter than usual, the bathroom filling with thick clouds that softened the edges of everything—the mirror, the tile, even the outline of my own body. I stood there longer than necessary, letting the water drum against my shoulders, listening to the rhythm of it like it might steady my pulse.

It didn't.

Every possible version of the evening played in my head.

I pictured myself saying something awkward and watching her smile tighten politely. I imagined dropping the box, the frog tumbling out at the worst possible moment. I imagined the subtle shift in her expression that would mean this isn't what I thought it would be.

Then another version surfaced.

Her laugh—the real one, not the polite one. The way her eyes narrow slightly before she grins. The way she leans in when she's interested.

The idea that maybe, just maybe, tonight wouldn't be something I survived.

Maybe it would be something I lived.

I pressed my forehead to the cool tile. "Don't overthink it," I muttered to myself, immediately overthinking that sentence too.

When I shut off the water, the sudden silence felt enormous. The mirror was fogged completely. I wiped a circle into it with my palm.

A blurred outline stared back.

For a second, I didn't recognise him. Not in a dramatic way—just in the way you sometimes forget that you've grown.

I shaved carefully. Slow strokes. Intentional. I lined up the edges with the kind of precision that said this mattered. Because it did. I brushed my hair back once, then again, then leaned closer to check if it looked forced.

I stepped into my room and laid everything out on the bed like armour.

Black dress shirt—fitted, sharp.
Black dress pants—pressed, clean lines.
Black dress boots—polished until they reflected light like still water.
Dark grey double-breasted coat—structured, grounding.

Magenta tie—striking, perfect

When I buttoned the coat, I stood straighter without meaning to.

Then the cologne.

Coffee-scented. Warm. A little sweet. She once leaned in and said, "That one. That's my favourite."

I sprayed once at my neck. Once at my wrist. Rubbed gently.

I picked up the box from my desk.

I had filled it slowly over the week—notes folded into neat squares, a handwritten letter sealed with her name written carefully across the envelope, a poem that felt embarrassingly honest, chocolates, stickers that made me think of her humour, and the stuffed animal frog that looked like it had something mischievous to say.

The duct tape was excessive.

The LEGO rose bouquet sat beside it. I had built each stem at my kitchen table, clicking the pieces together while imagining her reaction. Plastic roses that would never wilt.

I looked in the mirror one last time.

Excitement.

Worry.

Hope so loud it almost hurt.

"Okay," I whispered. "Go."

The cold air outside snapped me fully awake.