The smell of cheap chocolate and exhaust fumes is a heavy mix tonight. Down in the streets of the Metro, the traffic is paralyzed—a literal standstill of people rushing to prove they love someone. I watched a guy on a motorbike balancing a giant stuffed bear and a bouquet wrapped in plastic, weaving through the cars, desperate to not be late.
I’m in my thirties, and today, I am a spectator.
There is a specific kind of loneliness that comes with being unemployed on Valentine’s Day. It’s not just the lack of a partner; it’s the lack of purpose. When you have no office to go to and no paycheck to spend, the city’s aggressive celebration of "romance" feels like a party you weren't invited to. I walked past a flower stall today and realized the price of a single rose is more than I spent on my lunch. It’s a reminder that in this city, even love has a barrier to entry that I currently can’t afford.
The haze feels thicker tonight. Maybe it’s the humidity, or maybe it’s just the weight of seeing everyone moving in pairs while I feel like I’m disappearing into the background noise. In your thirties, you’re "supposed" to be half of a power couple, or at least have your life together enough to buy a nice dinner. Instead, I’m sitting in a dimly lit room, listening to the distant sound of horns honking in the distance.
I almost didn't write this. I felt like a cliché—the depressed guy complaining about a holiday. But then I realized that the haze doesn't lift just because the calendar says it’s a day for hearts.
If you’re spent the day hiding from the red-and-pink displays, or if you’re sitting in that brutal Manila traffic feeling more alone than the person in the car next to you, I see you. The sky is still hazy, and the roses will wilt by tomorrow, but we’re still here, breathing through the smoke.
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