I was thirteen years old when I had my first crush.

I can vaguely remember that he was a year older than me. He was tall and slender, had pale skin, and wore glasses. Regardless of how much I’ve erased him, and most of the embarrassing events that happened in my youth, from the archives of my memory, he marked the start of a string of many romantic encounters I would soon experience throughout high school.

I wish this were an over-exaggeration, but it’s, unfortunately, a fact: during high school, I had a new crush for every new week that came. There was one time that I had as many as seven crushes at the same time, with three of them bearing the same name. This was because of my wacky hormones coupled with my poor hopeless romantic brain that was somehow convinced that the more people I chose to like, the higher chances I would get of being in a relationship with one of them—looking back at it now, I probably should’ve taken it as a clear indicator that I didn’t view romance similar to the average person.

Although the strange thing was, for every situationship I’d manage to get myself in, I never desired to become official with any of them. 

On the contrary, as soon as a love interest began reciprocating what I felt for them, I instantly lost interest. For the longest time, I used to think that the problem was me—I happened to enjoy the chase more than the security or perhaps I had some underlying commitment issues that I never bothered to address or remedy. Regardless, I spent so much time blaming myself for why I could never seem to keep a significant other that I couldn’t pause and wonder if that’s what I even wanted. 

Ever since I hit puberty, I was conditioned to believe that romantic encounters were mandatory, not optional. 

“Normal ranang magka-crush kung dalaga na,” did that mean I would be ostracized if I never had any? After all, how else was I supposed to relate to my friends, who only ever talked about their crushes, if I didn’t have a couple of my own?

Those were such trivial and nonsensical worries I had back then, but there was just something about being young and dumb that made one want to conform to societal expectations to the point where one lost all bearings with oneself.

Years later, on a random afternoon, we were asked to share our controversial takes on whatever topic we wanted during class. 

My classmates’ opinions ranged from political stances, social issues, and pop culture events. However, the main takeaway I had during that day was when it was our teacher’s turn to share his controversial take. He said something along the lines of this: Romance nowadays is overglamorized. You do not need a romantic partner to feel whole.

Hearing those two sentences felt like a weight, which I never knew was there, had been lifted off my chest. However, the rest of the class had mixed reactions to what our teacher had said, and I remember being confused as to why not a lot of people agreed with him.

The next day, I took several “Are you Aromantic?” tests, and most of the results came back positive.

However, it was challenging for me to accept it at first. I kept invalidating myself with various “what ifs” like: What if I’m just avoidant? What if I do have commitment issues? What if I’m just bitter towards romantic love which is why I’m so repulsed? 

But at some point, I decided to silence the voices of doubt who thought they knew better, for I knew that no one else knew me better than I did. Just as I had been able to decide for myself my sexual orientation and gender identity, I would be able to do the same with my romantic orientation.

Eventually, frayromantic was the specific label under the aromantic umbrella I chose to attribute to myself—someone who only experiences romantic attraction towards people they are not deeply connected with. This explains why during high school when I did have crushes, I preferred to admire from a distance, and only ever made a move towards my crushes whenever I would be peer pressured to do so by my friends, and why whenever a love interest of mine happened to reciprocate my feelings and wanted to take things to the next level, it was then I who completely lost interest in them.

Of all those years I spent believing that I needed to constantly be involved in romantic encounters to be accepted into society or considered “normal,” it felt like I was constantly pushing myself to play a game to try to win a trophy I never even wanted in the first place. Even when I didn’t know better, I always wondered why I had to force myself to share the love I have within me when so much of it was meant to be used within me only.

I know that plenty of people have grown weary of the “love yourself” cliché because it’s frequently used to deal with the absence of a significant other. While it may seem overdone to some, I argue that the constant need for approval through romantic relationships is the one that’s overglamorized. One’s self-esteem may eventually suffer as a result, particularly if the want for romantic relationships becomes desperate and borderline obsessive. But when you give yourself the love you deserve—love that was yours and yours alone from the beginning—you erase any possibility of self-doubt or disdain. 

Ultimately, my purpose for writing this essay is to hopefully make you realize that love doesn’t need to be a one-dimensional concept. Romantic love, in particular, isn’t even necessary—love does not always need to be shared with a romantic partner for it to be valid. 

Along with this, it’s completely fine to not have a date or partner for this Valentines. No one is stopping you from buying your own flowers or getting yourself a sweet treat from a convenience store you’ve never been to or going to the mall and finally picking up that sweater you’ve been planning to buy for a while. After all, it’s your money, likewise, it’s your love—don’t ever let anyone tell you what you should or shouldn’t do with it.