a february love letter

to people, places, or things

February, the month of love, arrived with its usual weight of expectation. It’s the season of grand gestures, heart-shaped chocolates, and flowers wrapped in delicate paper. But love, I’ve come to realise, is much quieter than that. It lingers in the ordinary, woven into the smallest of moments, often overlooked.

This is a love letter to the things that don’t usually get written about.

To the first sip of coffee in the morning, when the world is still waking up and everything feels soft around the edges. To the ritual of turning on my espresso machine, tipping freshly ground beans into the portafilter, watching the first drip fall, and finally wrapping my hands around a warm mug—steam rising into the cold air of my flat, the silence broken only by birds chirping outside.

To the birds that have made their return to our lives, slowly taking over the gardens and parks around me. They announce that, although spring isn’t here yet, it’s on its way. The days are getting longer, and soon, we’ll wake up to the sun rising once again.

To nature walks, whether by the sea—where the rhythmic waves smooth the edges of my thoughts, through the forest—where tall trees stretch toward the sky and make my worries feel smaller, or even in parks—where seasonal flowers like daffodils, snowdrops, and tulips begin to bloom again. They remind me that even in the coldest months, life stirs beneath the surface, waiting to unfold.

To books that become companions, following me on my commute, through breaks at work, from my nightstand to my reading chair, in my ears and often in my heart. Pages are dog-eared, passages underlined—a map of all the times their words reached me at just the right moment. I love finding a sentence that feels as though it was written just for me—oftentimes one I didn’t know I needed until I saw it there, on paper.

To my journal, which grounds me when my thoughts feel tangled. The blank pages invite me to lay it all out, without judgment—lists, half-formed sentences, sketches, fleeting worries. A place that holds past versions of myself, my quiet joys, and my soft musings.

To friendships that span distance and time, the ones that don’t demand constant upkeep but still feel like home—a home you can return to with a mid-walk voice note, a postcard arriving unexpectedly, or a simple "thinking of you" message that bridges the miles. To the friends nearby, those we can meet for coffee, share sweets with, and yap our hearts out to. To colleagues with whom we share quiet complicity and easy banter, the small moments of laughter that make the workday lighter.

To Edinburgh’s winter light, spilling through my window and dancing on my walls in the mid-morning, or fleeting and golden, stretching across the city just before the sky darkens.

To the feeling of coming back to myself, of coming back home—after a hard season, after a long day, or simply after feeling a little lost. I’m learning that love is also about patience—the quiet work of tending to oneself, making space to heal, and learning how to soften again. And how comforting it is to return to the familiar—the creak of the floorboards, the scent of brewed coffee lingering in the air, the freshly washed linen spread across the flat so it can air dry, carrying its crisp, clean scent through the rooms. The books stacked haphazardly on my bedside table or neatly lined up on my bookshelf. The way candlelight flickers against the walls. A space that holds me.

February feels like a nice reminder in the year to celebrate the people, places, and things that make life warmer, in ways both big and small. But also to celebrate ourselves. I’m holding onto love in all its quiet, unassuming forms this month. The everyday kind. The kind that lingers in warmth, in slowness, in familiarity.

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Happy Valentine’s Day ♡

Amandine

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