A tear slid over the beige of my face, peeling off the foundation beneath. It was followed by another, and another, until the trail of the first tear seemed more like a mascara-filled motorway down my face, where tears drove relentlessly downwards, only to crash onto the blue folds of my shirt.

The clock had just struck ten, and the film in front of me was hopelessly happy: so happy that were it any other person watching they would be jumping up and down, screaming ‘You go girl! Kiss him hard!’

But it was this day. This one day of the year that seemed to hold a melancholy grey aura.
Two weeks ago, my boyfriend dumped me.
One week ago, my uncle died.
Two days ago, I opened my results to find an E-grade.
And it all culminated into this one moment, curled up in a ball with a bucket of Ben & Jerry’s, clutching the pillow so hard to my chest as the tears cascade in waterfalls down my face, close to choking on the painful cries that came with them.

God, I hate Valentine’s Day.