Last month during Valentine’s Day, I walked under the moonlit sidewalks of my West San Jose neighborhood and felt the penetrating sting of the cold wind make its way to the marrow of my bones.

As in years past, I did not celebrate the much ballyhooed holiday with some paramour. There was no purchase of a dozen red roses, chocolates, or any other accoutrements of amore. I’d like to think that it was because I’m not one to buy into the hype–that I’m one among the growing legion of anti-Valentinos who resent the over-commercialization of the day named after some martyr whose life a few of us actually know. But truth be told, that was not the case. I did want to partake in the celebration; there’s just no one to celebrate with.

My solitary status stung even more when I realized that practically everyone in my inner circle was in a relationship. Even friends and family members whom I thought were not the types who’d be in a committed relationship were, in fact, in that enviable situation.

Perfectly encapsulated by The Weepies in a song, the thought that ran endless cycles through my brain during that cold, cold night was: They’re in love, where am I?

During the walk, the streets were noticeably dark and empty, and I realized, so was I.