My birthday is two days before Valentine's Day so it has always

Host: The café was wrapped in the warmth of amber lights and the hum of quiet laughter. Outside, snow fell softly, catching in the glow of streetlamps, melting as it touched the glass. The world was wrapped in February’s hush — the month of red roses, candy hearts, and soft expectations. But here, in this little corner of the city, it was just another night.

Host: Jack sat at a small table by the window, staring out at the drifting snow, his fingers tracing idle circles on the rim of a half-empty cup. His grey eyes were tired, reflective, and slightly amused — the kind of look that belongs to someone who’s seen too much of love’s theater to be fooled by it. Across from him, Jeeny sat with her hands wrapped around a mug of hot chocolate, a faint smile on her lips.

Host: Between them, on the table, lay a small printed card — a quote by A. J. Odudu, written in looping cursive script:

“My birthday is two days before Valentine’s Day so it has always been about that rather than romance.”

Host: The card caught the glow of the candle between them, its words flickering like a quiet confession.

Jack: “You know,” he said, watching the words dance in the light, “that’s probably the most honest thing I’ve ever heard about February.”

Jeeny: “You mean about love?” she asked, teasing.

Jack: “No,” he said. “About expectations. Everyone’s supposed to feel something this month — romance, loneliness, longing — as if it’s on the calendar. Odudu just said, ‘Sorry, I’ve got my own celebration.’ That’s... refreshing.”

Jeeny: “It’s grounding,” she said. “We’re so obsessed with the idea of love that we forget to celebrate ourselves. Maybe she’s right — maybe the heart deserves its own day before it starts giving itself away.”

Host: The candle between them flared slightly as if agreeing. The snow outside thickened, soft flakes tumbling through the glow of streetlights.

Jack: “You sound like someone who’s made peace with solitude.”

Jeeny: “Maybe,” she said, sipping her drink. “Or maybe I’ve just learned that love isn’t confined to romance. There’s love in friendship, in family, in showing up for your own birthday with joy — even if no one else does.”

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said softly. “It’s not easy. It’s just necessary. You can’t pour love from an empty glass, Jack.”

Host: He leaned back, the faintest smile on his lips. “So you’re saying self-love comes first?”

Jeeny: “Not just first,” she said. “Forever. Romantic love is a season — self-love is climate.”

Host: The café’s piano in the corner began to play — a slow, nostalgic tune that lingered in the air like a memory you don’t want to let go of.

Jack: “You know, I used to hate birthdays,” he said. “They always felt like reminders of what I hadn’t done yet. What I hadn’t become.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why we pair them with things like Valentine’s Day,” she said. “To distract ourselves from the mirror they hold up. It’s easier to buy roses than face yourself.”

Jack: “You think Odudu’s quote is about that? About escaping reflection?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said. “It’s about reclaiming it. It’s her saying, ‘This day is mine.’ In a world that sells love in packages, she chose to unwrap herself instead.”

Host: Jack looked at her, his expression softening. “You really believe in that kind of independence, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “I believe in balance,” she said. “Love without self-awareness becomes dependency. Independence without love becomes isolation. The trick is learning to celebrate yourself without closing the door on others.”

Jack: “That sounds like philosophy with frosting.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is,” she said, smiling. “Birthdays are reminders that you’re still here — not perfect, not finished, but here. That deserves cake, not comparison.”

Host: The lights in the café dimmed slightly, and the piano music deepened — slow, soulful, the kind of melody that makes silence sound intentional.

Jack: “You know,” he said quietly, “there’s something beautiful about that — about choosing your own meaning. Maybe every holiday should be personal. Maybe Valentine’s Day should mean whatever we need it to mean.”

Jeeny: “Exactly,” she said. “For some, it’s romance. For others, reflection. For Odudu, it’s about being born into love before it’s marketed to her.”

Jack: “Born into love,” he repeated, almost to himself. “That’s... poetic.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s true,” she said. “Every birthday is proof that someone, somewhere, once chose to bring you into this world. That’s love enough to start with.”

Host: He watched her for a moment — the way the candlelight danced in her eyes, the quiet certainty in her tone.

Jack: “You ever think about how strange it is,” he said, “that we wait for specific days to feel special? Birthdays, anniversaries, Valentine’s... Like the rest of the year doesn’t count.”

Jeeny: “That’s because we need punctuation,” she said. “Life’s one long sentence — these days give it rhythm.”

Jack: “And what happens when the world forgets your rhythm?”

Jeeny: “Then you hum your own tune,” she said. “Loud enough to remind yourself you’re still music.”

Host: The clock on the café wall struck ten. The snow outside had slowed; the streetlights glowed like soft hearts suspended in air.

Host: Jack reached for the card on the table again, rereading A. J. Odudu’s words.

Jack: “You know, maybe that’s the real romance,” he said quietly. “Choosing to love your life — not because someone else made it special, but because you did.”

Jeeny: “That’s the only romance that lasts,” she said.

Host: The camera pulled back, catching them in a moment of stillness — two figures surrounded by light, laughter fading in the distance, and snow falling softly outside. The candle flickered, the piano played, and for a brief second, time felt kind.

Host: On the table, Odudu’s quote glimmered beneath the soft candle flame:

“My birthday is two days before Valentine’s Day so it has always been about that rather than romance.”

Host: And as the music faded into silence, the truth lingered —

Host: That love begins not with roses or vows, but with recognition — the quiet celebration of one’s own becoming. Because before we can give our heart to another, we must first learn to honor its beat.