For Valentine's Day, I wrote my crush a song and had it

Hear the tender remembrance of Cody Simpson, who once said: “For Valentine’s Day, I wrote my crush a song and had it professionally recorded. I never released it, though, because I wanted it to be a song just for her. I thought it would be more special that way.” These words, though born of youth and romance, contain a deep and timeless truth: love’s highest expression is not found in what is displayed to the world, but in what is given quietly, intimately, and sincerely to another soul. For true affection does not seek applause, but communion.

The origin of this wisdom lies in the very nature of love. Public gestures may dazzle, but it is the private offerings—the song whispered to one ear, the letter written by one hand, the vow exchanged in secret—that endure in the heart. By refusing to release his song to the world, Simpson shows that love is not performance, but devotion. He chose not to make the gift a spectacle, but a treasure, known only between himself and the one for whom it was written. This is the ancient truth: that the most sacred things are often hidden, guarded not by walls, but by trust.

History has given us echoes of such devotion. When Beethoven wrote his “Immortal Beloved” letter, addressed to a woman whose identity is still uncertain, he did not publish it for fame. It was meant for her alone, an offering of his innermost heart. Though the world now reads it, the letter was never intended for the masses—it was a personal flame, a private song of longing and devotion. Just as Simpson withheld his song, so Beethoven withheld his letter, for the true measure of love is not in how many witness it, but in how deeply it touches the one who receives it.

The ancients, too, revered this kind of hidden love. Did not Solomon write in the Song of Songs of secret gardens, of sealed fountains, of love that blooms not for all eyes but for the beloved alone? The poets of old knew that love is diminished when made into spectacle, for then it risks becoming vanity rather than truth. To give a song and keep it veiled from the world is to declare, “This belongs to us alone; it is too precious for the market, too sacred for applause.”

Yet in these words there is also challenge. For we live in an age where love is often displayed publicly—on stages, on screens, on platforms where every gesture is measured by how many bear witness. But Simpson’s act reminds us of a greater wisdom: that intimacy is worth more than publicity. A gift need not be broadcast to be powerful; indeed, its power often lies in its secrecy. The lesson is that the truest treasures of the heart are not shouted but whispered, not sold but safeguarded.

What, then, must we take from this? That in our relationships, we must learn to value not the grand gestures for the world’s eye, but the quiet ones for the beloved’s heart. To write a note, to sing a song, to give something known only between two souls—these are the acts that bind hearts together. Public glory fades; private devotion endures. Love is not a stage—it is a sanctuary.

Practical action lies in simplicity. The next time love stirs your heart, give something that belongs only to the two of you: a word, a gift, a gesture unseen by the world. Resist the temptation to measure love in likes or applause, and instead measure it in sincerity. Guard the sacredness of intimacy, for in that secrecy lies the deepest beauty. Teach others by example that love is not validated by public recognition, but by private truth.

So let Simpson’s words echo like a soft hymn: “I never released it, because I wanted it to be a song just for her.” Carry them as wisdom for your own path—that love, when given freely and privately, becomes more than performance: it becomes sacred. For the most precious songs of the heart are not those sung to the crowd, but those kept in the silence of two souls, bound together by devotion that needs no witness but itself.