By Sarah Collins • February 16, 2026 • Share
Valentine’s Day was supposed to be dinner and nothing else. I’m Briar, 28, deep in an EMT course, and I left that restaurant thinking my life had just fallen apart. I had no idea the night was about to get much stranger.
My name’s Briar. I’m 28. This happened on Valentine’s Day, and I’m still mad about the tiny heart-shaped butter pats. For context: I’ve been in an EMT course for months. It’s not a “cute little class.” It’s the first thing I’ve wanted this badly since I was a kid.
This happened on Valentine’s Day. I quit my job because my boyfriend, Jace, insisted. “Briar, you’re burning out,” he said. “Let me handle rent while you focus. Two months and you’re certified.”
I pushed back. “What if something happens?” “Nothing’s going to happen.” Something happened.
He took me to a candlelit restaurant that looked like it came with a complimentary engagement ring. Roses. Soft music. Couples doing intense eye contact. The waiter called us “lovebirds,” and I almost evaporated. Jace was smiling too hard. He drank half his wine in 10 minutes. I poked at my pasta because my stomach felt like it was tumbling down stairs.
Halfway through, he set his fork down. “Briar… I don’t think I’m in this the way you are.”
I blinked. “Are you serious?” “I’m not fighting. I’m asking what you mean.” He nodded, calm. “I’m sorry. I just don’t feel excited anymore.”
Four years. Reduced to “not excited.” “Not excited,” I repeated. He sighed. “I don’t want to fight.”
“I’m not fighting. I’m asking what you mean.” “You said you’d support me until I finished.”
