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.