The Letter I Would Like to Find in My Coat Pocket

Beyond the Staging of Valentine’s Day: A plea for everyday affection, the calligraphy of honesty, and the courage to refuse a love that forces you to shrink.

By Lidia Roselló

HoyLunes — I am not sure at what point we decided that love had to come wrapped in things that wither quickly. A bouquet. A box with a perfect bow. A dinner reservation made weeks in advance—don’t get me wrong, I like those too—but it is as if affection requires constant validation.

If you ask me, love should be more like finding a note folded in four in your coat pocket. One of those that makes no noise but changes your entire day.

Not a grandiloquent letter. Not a speech designed to impress. Rather, a small, almost mundane letter, written from the exact place where one feels safe: the truth.

I would like it to say something like: “I thought of you today without meaning to, like when sunbeams stream through the window when you weren’t even looking for them.” Or: “I love the way you occupy the world when you are at peace.” Or even: “If today feels heavy, I’ll hold it for you for a while”.

Because that is what I consider romantic: someone who doesn’t compete with your fears, who doesn’t put you to the test, who doesn’t only love you when you are shining. Someone who loves you on the silly days, the strange days, the days of unwashed hair and a cluttered mind.

I would like the letter not to promise the impossible, but to remind me of what is possible: that love can be a place without a strategy.

That it can be simple. That it can be light. That it can look like a hand on your back while you wash the dishes, a “should I pick you up?” when it rains, or a “you crossed my mind” without needing further explanation.

And I would like—and this is important—that it not be a letter written to fix a week of indifference. I do not want love as a form of compensation. I do not want an “I’m sorry” covered in glitter. I do not want grand gestures to cover up small absences that, when added up, weigh as heavy as stones.

I want the letter of the one who is present, the one who truly looks, and the one who stays.

Perhaps that is why imagining it in a pocket moves me so much: because it isn’t on a pedestal. It is close, within reach. It is tucked away among the keys, the crumpled grocery receipt, and the piece of candy you saved in case your energy dipped.

That letter, in reality, is not about Valentine’s Day. It is about every day.

About tired Thursdays, sleepy Mondays, and Sundays that stretch on forever.

And yes, I confess: I too have sometimes wanted the loud kind of love—the kind that gets noticed, the kind that looks like a movie. But over time I have learned that real love does not always have a soundtrack. Sometimes it has silence. Sometimes it has routine, and sometimes it has a “what did you eat?” which is the emotional equivalent of a blanket draped over your shoulders.

So, if someone were to ask me today what gift I want, I wouldn’t say roses. I would say this: an honest phrase, written without haste, on any piece of paper. A letter that doesn’t try to convince me, but simply accompanies me.

And if it never appears… that’s okay too.

Because this is the part nobody sells you in February: you can also write the most important letter yourself. The one you leave in your own pocket just in case you doubt yourself one day. The one that reminds you that you deserve a love that doesn’t make you shrink. The one that tells you, in an imperfect but firm handwriting: “Do not settle for less than what makes you whole”.

Perhaps that is the true romantic tradition: finding yourself, even in an old coat, even in February, or on any ordinary day.

Happy Valentine’s Day!