Story, story!

Story come.

February arrived the way a perfume does: soft at first, then suddenly everywhere. Roses multiplied. Chocolate prices inflated like egos in a club VIP section. Restaurants rolled out heart-shaped menus that cost kidneys. And men across the city began doing what they do best in February: mental accounting.

Because love is beautiful. But Valentine’s Day is expensive. And juggling girlfriends is a full-time job with no leave days.

Meet Michael. Michael was not a bad man. He was just romantically diversified. He believed in spreading joy, affection and occasional airtime across multiple territories. He called it “love economics”. His friends called it chaos management.

He had Anita, the corporate queen who loved brunch and structured plans. He had Zuri, the soft poet who loved sunsets and handwritten notes. And he had Tasha, the nightlife muse who believed Valentine’s should be celebrated with tequila and regret.

Then February crept in, carrying a calendar and a calculator.

Michael woke up one morning, stared at his bank app and felt the Holy Spirit of Budgeting descend upon him. Three women who believed they were the only woman. Three dinners. Three gifts. One man. One salary. Great expectations.

He called his friend Brian, a veteran of romantic misadventures. “Bro,” Michael whispered, as if the women could hear budgeting anxiety through walls, “I need strategy.”

Brian laughed the laugh of a man who had once bought three teddy bears and forgotten who liked which colour.

“February is audit season,” Brian said. “You either consolidate or liquidate.”

Liquidate. The word sounded harsh. But Michael knew what it meant: someone had to go. Or all of them would go, along with his rent money.

He googled: How to break up tactfully before Valentine’s Day. The Internet offered flowers, honesty and therapy. Michael closed the tab. Too expensive.

He decided on Anita. She was strong. Independent. Corporate. She would understand. Or at least pretend to on LinkedIn.

He invited her for coffee. “Anita,” he began, voice low and charming, as if pitching a startup, “you are amazing. You are structured, powerful and out of my emotional budget.”

She blinked. “You’re breaking up with me because of Valentine’s?”

He coughed. “No, because of, growth. Personal growth.”

She stared at him like a PowerPoint slide that refused to load. Then she laughed.

“At least you’re honest. But just so you know, honesty in February is suspicious.”

She left with dignity. He left with relief and a slightly lighter heart.

Next was Zuri. That was harder. Zuri cried beautifully, like a sad indie film. “I thought we were poetry,” she whispered.

“We are,” Michael said softly. “But some poems are seasonal.”

She unfollowed him on everything and posted a quote about letting go. He knew it was about him. He also knew poets have excellent captions.

Then came Tasha. “Babe, I was planning a whole weekend,” she said, nails tapping like a countdown clock.

Michael swallowed. “Listen, I think we should be friends.”

“Friends?” she laughed. “You don’t even like my friends.”

She blocked him, his cousins and a random guy who once liked his photo. Efficiency.

By February 10th, Michael was single. Financially stable. Emotionally bruised. Spiritually confused.

Valentine’s Day came. The city glowed red. Couples posted. Roses flooded timelines. Michael sat alone in his apartment, eating takeout and scrolling through memories of love he had strategically dissolved.

He thought of Anita’s composed silence. Zuri’s poetic heartbreak. Tasha’s fiery exit.

He had saved money. He had saved logistics. He had saved himself from juggling reservations like a wedding planner. But he felt something else: absence.

Love, even when messy, leaves echoes.

He went to the balcony and watched the city breathe love. Somewhere, someone was clinking glasses. Somewhere, someone was making up after a fight. Somewhere, someone was being dumped on February 15 — because that is also tradition.

Michael laughed at himself. He had gamified love. He had audited affection. He had optimised romance like a quarterly report.

But love is not a spreadsheet. And February is not a budgeting app.

Still, he knew one thing: Breaking up before Valentine’s was kinder than pretending through it. Better a clean wound than a romantic lie wrapped in ribbon.

So, my dear readers, February is the season of love, but also the season of clarity. If you are juggling hearts like oranges in a market, do the math early. Do it gently. Do it honestly. Do not wait until the 14th, when expectations are dressed in red and hope is wearing heels.

Because in love, timing is everything. And in February, mistakes are remembered until Easter.

Story, story!

Story gone.