Ayla
Valentine’s Day at my high school always felt loud.
Not because of love ballads playing everywhere or pink decorations—our school never officially celebrated it—but because of the whispers, the suppressed laughter, and all the little secrets wrapped in pink paper by the students themselves.
I usually didn’t care. Valentine was just another Tuesday, only with more chocolate, drama, and tongues tangled together in quiet corners or dimly lit places.
That morning, Magdalena and I stopped walking at our lockers.
A bouquet of pink roses was tucked neatly inside mine.
I stared at it for a few seconds too long, like it might disappear if I blinked. The scent was soft, not overpowering—sweet in a way that felt careful. My heart started beating faster, and I immediately glanced left and r
