Love Never Wanted Me

16

February 14th.

Some people call it the day of love.

Me? I just call it February 14th.

I've never been one for Valentine's Day. To me it's just one day out of 365. There's nothing special about it. Sure, it's the day to celebrate love, but why does it have to be one day? If I'm truly in love with someone, why should I wait until February 14th to show them? Love is a yearlong thing.

On this particular 14th of February, I am at the grocery store with my boyfriend. Super romantic, I know. We walk past all the pink, heart shaped balloons and red boxes of chocolates on display, not giving them a second thought. Patrick did tell me earlier that he forgot about it being Valentines, but I quickly told him not to worry about it. He has enough going on, the last thing on his mind should be Valentines.

While we walked up and down the aisles, grabbing what we need for the house, I kept my eyes glued on Patrick. I don't mean to hover or come off as hovering, but it's only been a week since his seizure. He seems okay, but just a little out of sorts. He's been lethargic lately, constantly sleeping or just quietly lounging around the house. The doctor changed up his meds which might be the reason for his lack of energy, but it still worries me.

I think something else is going on with him. He's been so distant and sad. I told him that I was there to talk, but Patrick said that he didn't need to. I want to believe him, but something in my heart is telling me that he's lying. Something is wrong and I don't know how to help him.

As he's scanning our items at the self-checkout, I take this moment to really look Patrick over. He looks so different then when I met him a couple of months ago. His beard is gone; he shaved it off a while ago, and it hasn't shown any signs of coming back. Most likely thanks to the chemo. He's paler too, not deathly so, but one could see that he was sick.

The black T-shirt and cardigan he's wearing are practically hanging off of his body. His jeans fit alright but, God, he's getting so thin. I know that a side effect of chemo is weight loss, but Patrick seems to be getting skinnier by the second. I don't think he's eating. Why wouldn't he be eating? Something is definitely up.

"Delilah, you're doing it again," Patrick says, breaking me out of my thoughts for a moment.

"Huh? What?" I stammer, coming back to reality, "Sorry, what was I doing?"

Patrick lets out a heavy sigh as he keeps scanning our items: "You're staring at me like I'm about to keel over at any moment," he goes on, sounding a little hurt, "You've been doing that when you think I'm not paying attention. Please, stop it."

"Sorry," I say, chewing on my bottom lip, "I didn't mean to offend you."

"You didn't," he sighs, shaking his head, "It's just, well, I'm okay, alright? If I wasn't, then I wouldn't have gotten out of bed, okay. I can take care of myself."

"I know you can," I reply, "but I can't help it if I want to make sure you're okay."

"Well I am," Patrick suddenly snaps, "You don't have to watch me like a hawk all the time. I'm fine, okay? I don't need constant supervision."

"I didn't say you did," I say, putting my hands up in defense, "Jesus, you're in a mood."

"I'm dying," he grumbles, returning to scanning out our groceries, "I can be in whatever fucking mood I want."

"Whoa," I say, looking at him in surprise, "where the hell is this coming from?"

"It's coming from the fact that it's the fucking truth," he snaps, raising his voice a bit, "why can't you just accept that?"