Valentine's Day

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"How's my love doing today?" I knocked on the door, holding a bouquet of roses. I know that shades of red, mainly burgundy and deep pink, are her favourite. Oh, I always add white ones, too, because they are my favourite.

"Aww, you didn't have to buy such a lovely bouquet," she said, a soft smile tugging at her lips, "I have nothing prepared for you. I feel so awful now." 

I chuckled, shaking my head. "You love these, and that’s enough for me. I was out earlier, and I just couldn't resist. You remember Matt, right? He's started selling bouquets in the morning. His garden is essentially a masterpiece now, and if you are ready, I will walk you there. Mind you, he now has a dog, so we have to be careful."

"Happy Valentine's Day, my dear." She rushed into my arms, hugging me tightly before placing a quick kiss on my cheek. Then, stepping back, she twirled playfully. "See? I’m all ready and in white, too! I know you love it when I wear this." 


I couldn’t help but smile. "You look beautiful," I said, taking her hands. We started walking down the street towards Matt’s house, enjoying the crisp morning air.

Matt’s garden was as stunning as ever—bursts of colour from freshly bloomed flowers, vines neatly trimmed, and a little stone path winding through it all. We barely began admiring it when the tiny Pomeranian darted towards us, barking furiously. The sudden noise startled her, and she instinctively stepped closer to me.

"I don’t like how it’s looking at us," she murmured, gripping my arm. "Let’s just head back." She had already turned around and was walking briskly. I had to jog a little to catch up. She stayed quiet until we reached our house, still slightly flustered. Once inside, she went straight to the closet and pulled out a neatly folded outfit. 

"Wear this one today," she said. "I still remember how good you looked in it during our last picnic. It suits you." I glanced down at the fabric and then back at her, about to protest, but she had already placed the dress on my hand.

"Oh, and don’t forget to pick up candles," she added, flashing a quick smile. "Don't worry," I reassured her. "We’re all set for the evening."


"We should head out now, or we’ll be late." Since we married, it’s been our tradition to pack dinner in a basket, drive up to Klausen Pass, and spend the evening soaking in the beauty around us. No matter how many times we’ve been there, the view always feels like a little surprise waiting to be rediscovered. The drive takes about half an hour, followed by a short ten-minute walk to our bench—a quiet spot with one of the best views of Mount Glatten. And when the sun starts to set, the whole place turns into something magical. By the time we arrived, the sky was already shifting into soft shades of pink and gold. We spread our picnic blanket, unpacked our food, and sat there, enjoying the moment.

"I don't think I will ever have a better meal than this," she said, stretching her legs out as we finished eating. The cool evening breeze made everything feel even more peaceful.

I chuckled, shaking my head. "You say that every time."

"Because it’s always true," she replied with a playful smirk.

As we started packing up, I looked around, taking in the familiar yet breathtaking view. "I still don’t know how we stumbled upon this place," I mused.

She smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Maybe it was just meant to be." And honestly, I couldn’t argue with that.


We started driving back, the quiet hum of the engine blending with the soft tune of Let Me Down Slowly by Alec Benjamin. She always played this song when we descended from the peak—it had become an unspoken tradition. Her voice carried through the car, gentle but firm, hitting every note perfectly. I sang along at first, but I let her take over, just listening.

Then, in an instant, everything changed.

A car came out of nowhere, speeding recklessly. I barely had time to react before it slammed into us. The impact sent our car skidding, tires screeching against the road. I fought to control the wheel, my heart pounding as we spun towards the edge of the road. My foot slammed on the brakes, the car jerking violently before coming to a stop just short of drop.

For a second, I thought we were safe. But then, I turned to her seat.

It was empty. The passenger door was wide open. My stomach twisted as I scrambled out, my pulse hammering in my ears. And then I saw her. She lay on the ground a few feet away, motionless. My breath caught in my throat. My injuries didn’t matter—scrapes, bruises, whatever they were, I couldn’t feel them. All I could see was her.


Today is February 14th. In fact, every day has been February 14th for the past year. The accident happened a year and a half ago. I got her to the hospital just in time, but she was slipping away fast—losing blood, losing consciousness. Thankfully, she survived and had to be in bed for six months. Unfortunately, the doctors realized that she could no longer recollect any memory from her life other than some parts of the fateful day. They suggested moving her to a psychiatric hospital.

We followed through, but she was never happy there. She barely spoke or smiled—except in the mornings when I visited with a bouquet. Those moments were the only ones where I saw a glimmer of the person she used to be. I couldn’t leave her like that. I just couldn't. So, one night, after a long talk with the doctors, I brought her home. Since then, I’ve ensured she wakes up to the same familiar love story every day. I tuck her in at night, kiss her forehead, and then reset everything—so that when she wakes up, it’s Valentine’s Day all over again.

Although I survived the accident, my time is running out. The doctors say I have two months, maybe less, before my own chronic condition worsens, and I must get myself admitted to the hospital before things start to take a turn for the worse. I won’t let her see me like that. She deserves to remember me the way I’ve always been. But what happens when I’m gone? What will she do when there’s no bouquet at the door, no familiar voice greeting her?

Dear God, please, just let her remember before it’s too late.


Siba Smarak Panigrahi

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