I met her, a couple of Feb 14s earlier, on the way back home. It was post-9pm, the compartment was empty, save one girl.
She was dressed up—dress, heels, lipstick—the whole deal. She quickly wiped her tears when I walked in, switching to looking out, resolutely.
THREAD.
I tried doing nothing for a few stations, but then, restless about all the grief that came off her, took the bench opposite hers, finally.
“All okay?” I asked.
She hesitated. Blinked.
“Valentine’s Day,” she replied, sadly.
“Date didn’t work out?”
“He dumped me!”
2.
I winced. An asshole with no respect for symbology!
She rubbed her nose, looking both sad and angry.
Tired from a day of work, I groped for words. What could I say that would help?
"Maybe if—," I began, but she cut me:
"How many times will this same thing happen to me?"
3.
"Every time I like someone, they turn out to be assholes. I was so happy I wasn't single on Valentines' Day. FINALLY. But this is WORSE! I dressed up so much. And went all this way from home... And he, and he..."
Turns out, I realised, one doesn't need to say much.
4.
All sad people on Valentines' need, is a listening ear.
Till, five stations of ranting later, they ask, "So YOU tell me, WHY should I believe in love?"
Interrogated thus, in a local train corner, I felt... cornered. Why should one believe in love, I wondered?
5.