Love, Sort of?

By Aarushi Chakraborty

Valentine’s Day is supposed to be all about love and hearts. But for me, it’s about trying to get over with bumping into star-crossed overs making out in public (Gross!). 

“Gabriela, snap out of it. You’re the no-nonsense girl of Bracket Wood High.” I muttered to myself. Ever since my father left my mum with 6 year old me and my baby brother, I’ve stopped believing in love. Whoever made this stupid idea of people “finding their other half”, well darn them. They were probably so lonely that they must have thought that finding their “one and only” would take them out of their misery. Guess what, they’re wrong. I think you’re whole by yourself. You don’t need a man to fill up the empty hole in your soul and make you feel like someone. 

I enter my school and groan at the sight of pink balloons and Korean love music playing at the background. Lockers are decorated with roses and I try my best not to bump into lovesick people. I probably look like a little storm cloud in the kingdom of CandyLand. I check my phone and see 3 missed calls from my brother. At that moment, I feel someone jumping on me.

“GABRIELA IT’S THE SEASON OF LOVE” shouts my best friend, Yoonchae as she hugs me from behind. She produces a pink envelope from her free hand and hands it over to me. “ The Valentine’s dance is like this Friday, so you better find someone, put on your sparkly outfit and dance the night away!”

I roll my eyes and I’m about to give her a big fat lecture about anti-romance when my brother calls me for the 4^th time. This time, I pick it up and ask “Hola?” I can hear my brother’s urgent voice from the other line asking me “Hermana? It’s me, Chad. Is it possible for you to come near the 6^th grade classroom? Like right now?” Chad never really called me and when he did it was just about small things like giving him lunch money. But the fear in his voice made me feel a little concerned. I turn to Yoonchae and told her curtly “ My brother’s is waiting for me, please inform the Algebra teacher I will be a little late for this issue” I wave away a disappointed slumping Yoonchae and walk to the middle school hallway. The middle school hallway was a Valentine’s massacre. Everywhere I looked, there were paper hearts bleeding glitter and hand-cut cupids that looked like they’d been through emotional trauma. But none of it compared to the cheerleaders’ desk. There it sat — right in the middle of the hallway like an altar to the gods of heartbreak. A pink monstrosity draped in red satin and fairy lights that blinked like the eyes of the devil himself. The air around it smelled like perfume, sugar, and manipulation. Glitter coated the floor in what I could only describe as the sparkly remains of people’s dignity. Behind the desk sat the squad — all smiles, lip gloss, and weaponized charm. They weren’t handing out chocolates or cards. Nu-uh . They were assigning fates. People lined up nervously, handing over money or secret notes, and the girls would whisper things, scribble names into their glittery ledger, then clap with the kind of glee that made my spine crawl. Rumor said that if your name landed in their “Love Registry,” your crush would mysteriously start liking you back within the week. No one knew how. No one wanted to. I swear, every time someone walked away from that desk, they looked different — dazed, smiling too wide, like they’d been brainwashed by heart-shaped demons.

I took the long way around. No way in the fiery depths of Cupid’s nightmare was I walking near that thing. That’s when it happened. I turned the corner, eyes glued to my phone, trying to text my brother back — and slammed straight into someone. Hard. My phone went flying, my heart did a backflip, and when I looked up, I wished I hadn’t

Ashton Vale.

Of course. The school’s walking cliché. Tall, messy dark hair, smirk that screamed trouble, and the kind of jawline that made people forget basic grammar. In one hand, he held a stack of pink envelopes — the infamous fake love letters he gave out every Valentine’s morning. A cruel game. He’d write sweet words, sign them with a fake secret admirer’s name, and then sit back and watch chaos unfold. Half the school hated him. The other half was too busy being in love with him to care.

“Watch where you’re going, sunshine,” he said, catching my phone midair with annoyingly perfect reflexes. His smirk deepened as he handed it back. “Didn’t think the Grinch of Bracket Wood celebrated Valentine’s.”

I snatched it from his hand. “Didn’t think you could read, considering you spend your mornings writing fairy tales for desperate girls.” He chuckled, stepping closer — too close. I could smell his cologne, warm and infuriatingly expensive. The hallway noise blurred. My pulse quickened in a way that made me angry at my own biology. “Careful, Gabriela,” he said softly, tilting his head. “You sound jealous.”

“Jealous?” I scoffed, forcing a laugh that came out sharper than intended. “Please. I’d rather fall in love with a cactus.” He grinned — slow, lazy, dangerous. “Maybe that’s still safer than falling for me. “And just like that, he slipped past me, dropping one of his fake letters at my feet on purpose. The pink envelope landed faceup, my name written across it in elegant, looping handwriting. My stomach dropped. No. He didn’t—

But he had. I kicked the ground and stared at it like it was an annoying blister (I mean it was) I was still staring at the pink envelope on the floor when I heard footsteps behind me. “Hey, sunshine. You dropped this.” It was Ashton again. Of course. He was holding my notebook — the one with all my doodles, sarcastic notes, and a few very personal rants about why love was an elaborate scam. I took it quickly. “Thanks.” He raised an eyebrow. “You always this dramatic before first period, or is that a Valentine’s special?”

“Do you ever stop talking?” I asked flatly. He looked amused. “Not when the company’s this cheerful.” Before I could respond, a high pitched voice interrupted from nearby.

“Oh my goodness! You two look so cute together!” We both turned. Standing a few steps away was a freshman — or at least, I think he was. He looked like he’d stepped straight out of a Valentine’s card: pink jacket, heart-shaped sunglasses, glitter on his shoes, and blond curls that practically glowed under the hallway lights. Ashton and I said, at the same time, “We are not.” The boy clasped his hands together. “Opposites attract! You’re giving enemies-to-lovers energy. Classic setup.” I blinked. “I’m sorry, what?” Ashton sighed. “Kid, maybe you should save the matchmaking for someone who cares.” The boy tilted his head, smiling in a way that was far too confident for someone wearing sparkly sneakers. “You don’t believe in my work, I see.”

“Work?” I repeated. He straightened his jacket. “I’m Cupid.” I stared at him. “Right. And I’m the Easter Bunny.” Ashton crossed his arms. “Do you go around telling everyone that, or just the ones who look annoyed?” The boy frowned, clearly unimpressed. “It’s always the same. Mortals never believe me. Then they regret it later.”

“Sure,” I said dryly. “I’ll add that to my list of things to worry about right after calculus.” Cupid sighed — an exaggerated, dramatic sound — and reached into a small satchel covered in sequins. “Fine,” he said. “If you won’t believe me, I’ll just have to prove it.” Before either of us could react, he pulled out a small crystal ball that shimmered faintly pink. Ashton took a cautious step back. “Whatever that is, please don’t throw it.” Cupid smiled. “Too late.” He tossed the crystal at us. It burst in midair, scattering light and a faint scent of roses. I felt something ripple through my chest — warm, strange, and annoyingly persistent. When the glow faded, the hallway was quiet again. Cupid dusted his hands and looked quite pleased with himself. “There,” he said. “Now you’ll think about each other. Constantly. You’re welcome.”

“What?” I said, blinking through the leftover sparkle in the air. Cupid waved cheerfully. “Call it a mild enchantment. You’ll see.” And then, just like that, he vanished in thin air. Ashton looked down at the faint glitter now stuck to his sleeve. “That didn’t happen,” he said. “Agreed,” I replied. But even as I walked away, trying to brush the glitter off my jacket, I could still feel it — a strange, unshakable pull, like the thought of him had gotten stuck somewhere in the back of my mind and refused to leave. I tried to shake off whatever had just happened, but my chest still felt strange—like someone had replaced my heartbeat with static. I told myself it was nothing, grabbed my phone, and rushed toward the middle school wing. Chad’s text had said urgent. When I reached his classroom, I saw him sitting on the floor, holding an ice pack to his cheek, his backpack beside him. My stomach dropped. “Chad! What happened?” I crouched beside him. He looked embarrassed. “Some kids were playing soccer in the hallway, and I got hit by the ball. I’m fine.” I sighed, brushing his hair off his forehead. “You’re not fine. You’ve got a bruise forming.” Before I could go find the nurse, a voice spoke behind me. “Here.” I turned to see Ashton holding out a fresh ice pack. Of course. “I got it from the staff room,” he said, crouching beside Chad. “You okay, little man?” Chad nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.” Ashton smiled a little. “You’ve got good reflexes. Just bad luck.” He looked normal then, almost decent, and that thought irritated me immediately.

 No. That’s the curse talking. “Thanks,” I said curtly, standing up. “We’ll handle it.” “You’re welcome, sunshine,” he replied, with that infuriating grin. “Don’t call me that.” “Sure thing, sunshine.” For the rest of the day, the so-called curse made itself known. First period: I opened my locker, and a photo of Ashton from the school newspaper fluttered out, stuck to my biology notes. Second period: I accidentally wrote his name on my quiz paper instead of mine. Third period: he took my pen somehow, and I later found his water bottle in my bag. By lunch, I was at my limit. “If Ashton Vale ever learns to mind his own business, the world might spin smoother,” I complained, dropping my tray beside Yoonchae. She gave me a look. “You’ve mentioned his name six times since you sat down.” 

“I have not.” 

“Seven now.” Across the cafeteria, Ashton sat with his friends, clearly ranting about me. I caught the words “impossible” and “acts like I kicked her puppy.” Yoonchae pointed her fork at him. “He’s doing the same thing.” We accidentally made eye contact, both looked away instantly. Yoonchae sighed. “For people who don’t like each other, you both seem very busy proving it.” A freshman nearby leaned over. “No offense, but for two people who say they hate each other, you sure talk about each other a lot.” I didn’t respond, and neither did Ashton from across the room, though I was sure he’d heard. The silence stretched just long enough to make it awkward, and then I sneezed—right as his name popped into my head again. Yoonchae groaned. “Yup. Definitely cursed.” 

By Thursday afternoon, the so-called Cupid curse had become an ongoing disaster. Every time I saw something pink, I thought of Ashton. Every time I heard music, I heard his stupid laugh echoing in my head. If this was Cupid’s idea of a joke, he had a cruel sense of humor. That day, while I was still mentally plotting to sue supernatural beings for emotional distress, Yoonchae bounded over, all smiles and glitter. “So,” she said, waving a flyer in my face. “Valentine’s Dance tomorrow. Who’s your partner?” I gave her a look. “Do I look like someone who participates in social rituals involving sparkles and awkward small talk?” Yoonchae pouted dramatically. “Come on, Gab! You can’t sit this one out every year. Who knows? Maybe it won’t be that bad.” I sighed. “Fine. Who are you going with?” She grinned. “Minho, obviously.” Then her eyes gleamed mischievously. “But you should ask someone. Make it fun!” Before I could refuse, the final bell rang. “Think about it!” she shouted, vanishing down the hall like a caffeinated fairy. After school, I sat on the stone bench by the parking lot, phone in hand. I hated that Yoonchae’s words echoed in my head. Who knows? Maybe it won’t be that bad. So, against every rational fiber of my anti-romantic soul, I called my childhood friend Ethan. He was nice, funny, and safe—the opposite of trouble. “Hey,” I said when he picked up. “We’ve got this dumb Valentine’s dance tomorrow. Wanna come as my partner? Just for fun.” He laughed. “Sure thing, Gab. It’ll be a disaster, but at least we’ll match.” I smiled faintly. “Exactly.” But before I could hang up, I felt someone behind me. I turned—and there he was. Ashton. His expression wasn’t teasing for once. There was something raw, unguarded, and startlingly real in his eyes. He waited until I put my phone down, then said quietly, “So, you already found a partner?” “Ashton—what are you—” Before I could finish, he stepped forward, voice lower now, like he was forcing the words out before he lost his nerve. “I overheard you,” he said. “And I can’t—” He exhaled shakily. “I can’t just stand here and pretend I don’t care anymore.” My heart stuttered. “What are you talking about?” He looked at me, really looked at me. “You drive me insane. You argue about everything. You glare like it’s an Olympic sport. And still—every time you walk into a room, I can’t look anywhere else. I thought what I felt was just curiosity or—whatever that stupid curse did. But it’s not. It’s me.” I blinked. “Ashton…” 

“I like you, Gab,” he said, taking a step closer. “Not in the fake-letter, make-a-scene kind of way. I mean it. I like you—the girl who rolls her eyes at the world but still shows up for her brother, who pretends she’s fine but cares way too much.” The world seemed to still around us—the faint hum of cars, the sunset bleeding gold across the asphalt, the sound of my pulse in my ears. For once, I didn’t know what to say. My voice came out smaller than I intended. “I spent so long telling myself love was ridiculous. That it made people weak. That it destroyed families.” I looked away, then back at him. “But maybe I was wrong.” He smiled softly. “Maybe it just scares people because it’s real.” Something inside me cracked—quietly, gently. I stepped forward, closing the distance between us. “You’re an idiot,” I murmured. He grinned. “Yeah. But I’m your idiot, if you’ll let me be.” I didn’t answer with words. I just nodded—and then we both laughed, the tension breaking like glass. He pulled me into a hug, warm and grounding. For the first time in years, I let myself lean in. 

The next night, at the dance, holding his hand as we stepped under the soft pink lights, I realized that love isn’t about filling a void or fixing the past. I can be whole on my own, and I am whole—but letting someone matter to me, letting someone stand beside me without fear or shame, doesn’t make me weak. My father’s mistakes taught me to distrust love, to see it as messy and dangerous, but now I understand that the real risk—and the real courage—is choosing to trust again. Love isn’t cringe. It’s messy, yes, and sometimes painful, but it’s also choice, connection, and the quiet bravery of letting someone see you as you are and still care. And tonight, as I walk hand in hand with Ashton, I feel that maybe believing in love isn’t foolish at all—it’s just me.

By Aarushi Chakraborty