The Valentine That Stayed

The Valentine That Stayed

Eleanor found the red envelope tucked neatly beside Harold’s teacup that morning.

It wasn’t flashy. No glitter. No ribbon. Just a simple heart drawn in pen on the corner—slightly crooked, the way his handwriting had become over the years.

She smiled before she even opened it.

They had been married for sixty-two Valentine’s Days now. Long enough to remember when Valentine’s Day meant reservations made weeks in advance, roses clutched awkwardly on crowded sidewalks, and dancing shoes kicked off under restaurant tables long after dessert.

Back then, Harold always made a production of it.

Now, at eighty-six and eighty-four, Valentine’s Day looked different.

Harold shuffled into the kitchen just as Eleanor finished reading the card.

“What does it say this year?” he asked, lowering himself carefully into the chair across from her.

Eleanor folded the card gently, as if it were something fragile.

Still you.
Still us.
Still my favorite place to be.

Her voice wavered just a little.

“I didn’t know what else to say,” Harold replied, embarrassed. “Seems I’ve already used up all the fancy words.”

Eleanor reached across the table and placed her hand over his—thin now, spotted with age, but as familiar as her own.

“I don’t miss the fancy,” she said softly. “I miss the noise sometimes. The crowds. The energy.”

He nodded. “I do too. But I like this part.”

So did she.

Later that afternoon, they sat together on the couch, sharing a small plate of heart-shaped sandwiches Eleanor had insisted on making, even though Harold teased her about cutting them just right. A classic movie played quietly in the background, neither of them really watching.

Harold dozed off halfway through, his head tilting gently toward her shoulder.

Eleanor didn’t move.

She thought about how Valentine’s Day used to be about proving love—showing it, announcing it, celebrating it loudly.

Now, it was about keeping it.

Keeping it through doctor’s appointments and slower mornings.
Through forgotten words and repeated stories.
Through hands that shook and steps that shortened.

Love, she realized, hadn’t disappeared as they aged.

It had settled.

When Harold stirred awake, he looked at her and smiled, confused for just a moment, then calm again.

“Did we miss Valentine’s Day?” he asked.

Eleanor kissed his temple.

“No,” she said. “We stayed right here for it.”

And that was enough.

The End.

This Valentine’s Day, may you feel loved in the ways that matter most—seen, held, and never alone.