I used to dream of being one of those girls in movies, the ones who get lovely dates and grand surprises, the kind of love that feels cinematic: silly little high school romance in the hallways, in the rain, on dance floors. I wanted to be Isabel from Bottoms, Jana from Rookie, Sam from A Cinderella Story, or Jenna from 13 Going on 30 — I was just a girl consuming films, imagining a love story that could someday be mine.

And I know I’m not alone in this. Many of us grew up believing that rom-coms could be real life. In a way, I still do. With the right person, love can feel like a movie. But with that belief comes an expectation—that Valentine’s Day should be a scene straight out of a film. And when reality doesn’t match the script, it’s easy to feel like love, or at least the grand version of it we hoped for, has passed us by.

So when the love month comes around, some people celebrate, some mourn the love they feel they’ll never have, and others pretend they don’t care. I’ve often been the last, and yet, there’s always a small pang of loneliness, a quiet wish for something more.

Love, longing, and everything in between

(Screenshot from Rookie (2023))

We’ve been taught that Valentine’s Day belongs to romance—the grand pre-Valentine’s proposals, oversized bouquets, heart-shaped chocolates, and candlelit dinners. While it’s a celebration of love, it can also serve as a reminder of the love one has yet to experience.

Especially as I near the end of my teenage years, I can’t help but notice what I haven’t had. I tell myself that I don’t long for extravagant things, yet there’s always a quiet voice in my head whispering that even the smallest effort to make me feel loved is all I’ve ever wanted on this day.

And while being single means being left out on Valentine’s and falling behind everyone and having to expect to have someone by a certain age, this may stir up feelings of loneliness and endless questions of “Am I lovable enough?”

However, being single doesn’t mean being less happy. If anything, it can be freeing, offering a chance for self-discovery and growth. A relationship doesn’t define who we are, nor does it determine whether we are whole or incomplete. There’s a kind of magic in realizing that being on your own isn’t something to be pitied—it’s simply another way of living, one that can be just as fulfilling.

Beyond this, being single or feeling a longing for love doesn’t mean it’s absent. Love exists in many forms—some so subtle we fail to notice them at first. It’s realizing that love is, quite literally, in the little things and the ordinary moments, in friendships, in family, and even in ourselves.

Even before I got into rom-coms, I was already deeply immersed in sitcoms and films that captured the essence of friendships. With films like Mona Lisa Smile and Little Women, I didn’t long for romance—I longed for the kind of friendships and experiences they had. So long before I ever became one of those girls who wished to live out a rom-com, I was first a girl who knew love existed in the depth of friendships and the shared laughter and whispered secrets.

And with that, I’ve come to realize that while I may be missing romantic love, I am already full of love from my family and friends. Since I was young, I’ve made countless letters and handmade crafts for my mother on Valentine’s Day. A year ago, I learned about Galentine’s Day, and ever since, I’ve been excited about the idea of dressing up and dining out with friends on a day that so often feels like it belongs to couples.

Even with this understanding, the longing remains, but it softens—no longer an ache, just a quiet presence.

The memory boxes I fill

(Screenshot from Little Women (2019))

We’re trained to search for love in grand gestures and to expect it in ways that feel life-changing. But love is already here, existing in the in-between spaces, in the things we hold onto.

Like the memory boxes I’ve filled over the years—handwritten letters from my elementary graduation, a white shirt covered in seventh-grade signatures, eighteen letters from my debut, movie, and museum tickets, music festival wristbands, and anything that holds a piece of a person and a moment—I keep them as reminders that, at some point, I have loved and been loved in ways that aren’t always loud, but are always real.

Outside those memory boxes, love finds its way into my journal, into the videos I take of myself talking about my day. It’s in the ice cream vendor outside my old school, who still remembers my least favorite flavor. It’s in the person who brings me my favorite drink just because. It’s in the quiet understanding of someone who knows how to be there when I can’t handle things alone.

Love, in its purest form, is in the little things. That's why I keep them close—the small, fleeting moments that remind me love doesn’t have to be loud to matter.

The love that quietly stayed

(Screenshot from 13 Going on 30 (2004))

And these little forms of love may not be grand, but they linger in the quiet spaces, waiting for us to find our way back to them when we remember. Just as much as there is weight in loving and longing, there is also beauty in simply existing in between—living life as it comes, without the need for grand narratives.

I, myself, am not one to be overly expressive about love. I rarely say 'I love you' out loud, but I'll bring a friend's favorite lunch when I visit to show I care. My eyebrow may always be raised in amusement or skepticism, but I’ll surely be there to listen when someone needs me. And at times, I’ll remember those who left, the songs we used to sing together, the games we used to play, the inside jokes only we would understand.

The reason we can always return to these little things is because they quietly stayed—through and through. While we’re busy searching for something more, they’re always there, like the people who made us feel this way, the people who filled our lives with these quiet acts of love, and the little things that may seem small yet speak the loudest.

Sure, people come and go, and others may be wrapped in the warmth of romantic love, but we still can choose to love in our own quiet, steady, unspoken ways.

So here I am, letting love live on through these words—because sometimes, that’s all we have.