“Are you happy now?” I asked.

“No,” he replies, awkwardly turning his lanky body away from me, eyes directed towards the ground.

I knew this would be his response. I knew that despite the outward appearance of success (a house, a dog, a common-law wife) that he was still interminably unsatisfied with life and humanity.

I woke up feeling dread and angst. I lay there thinking about Valentine’s Day, about how every year I’d give him the same card attached to a pound of coffee beans that I’d travelled across the city to acquire. The gift was unusual - I’m not prone to celebrating children’s holidays - and it always came as a twee surprise to him. We’d laugh about it, but then he’d keep the card on display for weeks, months.