I am valentine

 I don’t have any special Valentine’s Day memories.

No candlelight. No roses. No dramatic confessions under the staircase. My only tradition was protest. I would wear full black on valentine day in my college days. It was my statement like I was attending a funeral for romance. Black shirt, black trousers, black shoes, even black innerwear. Because if you’re going to make a statement, then make it strong. Valentine’s Day, is just a waste of time for me then.

In school and college,I thought love was a distraction. A waste of time. A suspicious hobby. When I saw my friends falling in love, my first reaction wasn’t “aww,” but it was “kill it.” I separated lovebirds with the dedication. That’s why, whenever someone became a lovebird, they hid from me knowing I would kill their love.

But I had last bench instincts.

I could smell love from five benches away.

I belonged to the last bench my entire student life. I still do in my thoughts. Last bench is not a place, it’s a personality. I was half philosopher, half troublemaker, full time observer.

Now here’s the funny part.

I wrote first love letter when I was in grade seven.

And it wasn’t for my love.

It was a summer day. It’s funny because in my city, saying “summer day” is absurd. We only have seasons like, more summer, hot summer, sweaty summer, horrible summer, and just summer.

Even though I was last bench material, I was a top performer in studies. And I could write well. My arts teacher trained me and made me write scripts for annual day plays. So I had this reputation that I was the school’s tiny writer in residence. 

That’s when my close friend who had recently transformed into a lovebird came to me and whispered like he was asking for a cheat code for a video game.

“Bro… write a love letter for my love.”

I saw my chance.

Not to help him.

To kill the lovebird.

So I wrote a love letter. Properly romantic. Grade seven romantic, which means the moon was involved, the heart was involved, the rose was involved, and logic was completely missing. My handwriting was neat enough to get extra marks from teachers. I had won handwriting prizes. So whole school knew about it and that’s another reason the lovebird friend wanted me to write a love letter for him.

My friend grabbed the letter and marched straight to her.

And who was “her”?

My academic enemy.

The girl who always scored Rank 1, while I permanently held Rank 2 like it was my appointed position. I couldn’t beat her at all. She was always one step ahead.

I was weak in maths. And I still blame fate for it. because once, ( even now to be honest) , in peak stupidity, I had a crush and I wanted to marry my maths teacher. I think fate punished me for that thought by making me terrible at maths, so my beloved maths teacher could look at me like I was a personal disappointment.

Anyway, my friend handed her the letter.

She read it.

Put it in her bag.

And walked away.

No reply. No reaction. Silent exit like an exam topper.

That evening after school, she called me for a “chat.”

This was not mobile phone era. This was autos waiting to pick us up era. In my school, a boy and a girl couldn’t talk freely. Teachers fined us like we were running an illegal business.

She stood there, calm and serious, and handed me a paper.

The same love letter.

That’s when I realized my friend, this bloody idiot lovebird didn’t sign it with his name.

He had just delivered it, blank signature, full confidence.

And she, she recognized my handwriting.

So she thought I wrote it. For her.

My soul left my body. My reputation shaken.

But she didn’t scream. She didn’t tease.

She with a gentle smile, simply said, very politely

“You’ve written a very good letter, I like it but you made some grammar mistakes.”

Then she corrected my sentence like this was a exam paper correction.

“You can’t say ‘didn’t met’. After ‘did’, it should be base form. It’s ‘didn’t meet’.”

Imagine someone accidentally receives a love letter, and instead of a blush, she gives a tense correction.

That day, we made a deal.

She would teach me grammar.

I would teach her writing.

It was unexpectedly sweet. Two rank hungry kids helping each other like nerds forming a secret alliance.

But inside me, the last bench villain woke up again.

Because I remembered my friend. The lovebird.

And I still wanted to shoot him.

So I lied with the confidence to her.

“Actually, my friend considers you like his sister. He respects you deeply.”

She blinked.

“So you should tie him a raksha bandhan thread.”

She frowned instantly, because rank 1 people are like that.

“But A***,  it’s not raksha bandhan in February. It comes in August.”

I nodded, like I had anticipated this question for years.

I convinced her anyway. I even bought a thread from a shop the next day because if you’re going to sabotage a love story, do it properly, because for me then the policy is, kill the lovebird and make sure to bury it. That’s victory.

The next day she walked straight to him, and in front of everyone, tied the rakhi on his hand.

My lovebird friend stood there frozen, holding a brand new identity. Not love bird but brother.

And just like that the lovebird died. Yay!!

No tears. No drama. No breakup scene. Yay!!

Just a thread. Yay!!

Today, when I think about it, I laugh.

Because my first love letter didn’t start a romance. It started grammar lessons, writing lessons, and one unforgettable act of childhood stupidity. It didn’t even start for my own love.

And that’s the thing about our school days 

even our mischief had innocence,

even our cruelty had comedy,

and even our “love” stories were so pure and harmless.

they could be ended by a single rakhi.

That day I didn’t just shoot a lovebird.

I accidentally wrote my first heartwarming story and got a lifelong friend who message me every valentine day reminding the letter I wrote for her and laugh at our grammar lessons and writing classes.