They told us love prefers rooftops—
where it can be seen stretching its arms into sunsets,
where it can glitter under the fairy lights
and toast champagne to its own reflection.
They said love was loud,
dressed in red,
perfumed with roses and certainty.
And yet, this is where you found me—downstairs,
beneath the noise,
beneath the polished floors of other people’s expectations,
in a basement that smelled of old cardboard and rain-soaked walls.
A room where forgotten things went
to wait without complaint.
You found me here,
in a season of dimness;
Where my laughter had learned to whisper,
Where distance felt like a second heartbeat,
Where hope folded itself small
to fit inside survival.
Instead of asking for sunlight,
you brought sunflowers.
Their petals were reckless with yellow—
Too bold as if they had mistaken
Concrete for countryside,
too bright for this narrow room,
too alive for a place that memorized shadow.
I almost laughed at the absurdity.
What could something that worships the sun
Possibly do down here?
What could love—
That luminous, demanding, throbbing feeling—
Be in a place built for shadows?
But you only smiled
as if light were not a location but a decision.
You placed them in a jar like setting down faith.
And in that trembling light
Of a single bulb,
Their petals flutter open—
Slowly, stubbornly,
Like hearts that have known hurt
yet chose softness anyway.
“We’ll grow them anyway,” you said,
With a voice that spoke of no hesitancy and tremble.
So we did.
We watered them with conversations
no one overheard.
With late-night confessions
spoken softly into unfinished air.
With the patience of two people
learning that love is not a performance
but practice.
Outside, the world celebrated loudly—
bouquets raised like trophies,
kisses documented and filtered into perfection,
romance packaged neatly
for public approval.
Downstairs, we learned the holiness of quiet.
Our love did not echo.
It did not trend.
It did not demand to be witnessed.
It existed in the small geography
between your hand and mine,
in the careful way you said my name
as though it were something breakable
and worth protecting.
There were days the darkness pressed close—
when distance tried to convince us
that roots could not survive without sky,
when hardship knocked against the walls
and asked us who we thought we were
to believe in blooming.
But every morning,
the sunflowers leaned toward us—
not toward a sun they had never seen,
but toward the warmth we made
simply by staying.
And I realized then:
light is not always above you.
Sometimes it is beside you.
Sometimes it is the steady presence
of someone who refuses to leave
when the room grows small.
This Valentine’s,
We do not need chandeliers or violins.
We do not need to prove
that what we have is radiant.
Because we have already seen it survive
in the lowest places.
We have watched it root itself
through doubt and distance.
We have held it carefully
when it trembled
and called it beautiful anyway.
Let others chase horizons,
for we will remain here for a while—
in this imperfect, ordinary, simple room
where something extraordinary
first dared to grow.
Because even without sunlight,
without spectacle,
without the world watching—
our love turns its face upward
and blooms.
Written by Briana Erich Macaraeg (Mira), Insight PH
Briana Erich Macaraeg (Mira), Insight PH is a dedicated campus journalist and contributor. Their insightful writing sparks meaningful conversations and keeps the community informed.
