What we do for love: 9 creatives share their most romantic memories

A special Valentine’s Day post, with contributions from Caroline Calloway, Molly Soda, Emmeline Clein, Jessica DeFino and more

Feb 14, 2025

A gang bang isn’t usually the first thing that comes to mind when you hear the word romance. But after witnessing a queer polycule band together to organize one for their partner’s birthday—at their request, obviously—I was struck by the unexpected tenderness of the gesture: so many people coming together to transform an intricate, deeply personal fantasy into reality.

When I was invited to play voyeur, I didn’t know what to expect. I’ve been to orgies before, seen people fucking at sex parties and queer clubs. But this was different. From the lineup of strap-ons and kinky props to the on-theme cake, every detail was arranged with meticulous care. By description alone, you might expect the scene to be abject, even dehumanizing. But watching the 12 leather-clad pro-dommes move around each other in perfect symphony, I realized this wasn’t just about sex—it was a show of devotion.

That night got me thinking: beyond the typical chocolates, candy, and flowers, what are the romantic gestures that truly linger—the ones that are unexpected, unconventional, or just plain weird?

I’ll start. My partner is a true romantic, and he likes to surprise me—whether that’s kidnapping me for an impromptu beach day (complete with windowless van) or tying me to a chair for what I thought was going to be a steamy encounter, only to change course and serenade me with a love song (a reference to an anecdote contained in this story.)

When I ask him which of my romantic gestures stand out to him, his response is quick: “Probably the sex hotel,” referencing the time I spirited him away to spend an evening sipping champagne in a heart-shaped jacuzzi. This is, admittedly, less romantic when you consider that he had to drive us there—because like a true New Yorker (and passenger princess), I don’t have a license.

Anyway, I’ve always had a taste for romance, and found people who share it—even if they were, in the end, not the right person for me. Take my high-school boyfriend: terminally romantic, terminally afraid of commitment. He was the one who taught me that if you lift a painting off a hotel wall, you can almost always get away with scrawling a love note behind it: A secret subversion hidden in plain sight.

The right gesture can turn the world into something enchanted, like it exists just for the two of you. Sometimes, though, the sweetest things are the smallest ones: a meal delivery when you’re sick, holding your hair when you’re bent over the toilet, pretending you’re not being insufferable when you really, truly are.

Last night, I came home late, punch-drunk (and actually drunk) after a night of chugging pink cocktails at Cosmo’s Valentine’s Day party. I took off my makeup, head buzzing with the evening’s events, and swung open my door to find a journal sitting on my bed—the one D and I occasionally write each other notes in, a sort of sustained, slow-motion love letter. On top of it was a single, cut rose. Inside, a note that smoothed the jagged edges of our fight the night before. A small gesture, but a perfect one. Exactly what I needed, at exactly the right time.

It made me think about what love really is—not just one grand moment, but the series of actions that come to form a life together. And yet, some of the moments that define romance for us will be one-offs: a perfect interaction with a stranger you never see again, a singular flash of sweetness in a relationship otherwise defined by turmoil.

In the spirit of Valentine’s Day, I asked writers and creatives to share the romantic gestures that have stuck with them, from sweeping declarations to quiet moments of devotion. These are their stories.

Safy-Hallan Farah — Writer

One of the most romantic things my fiancé has done for me is drive me from back to Minnesota from Chicago. He hates driving but he will drive me any distance.

Jessica DeFino — Writer

I took an outdoor bootcamp class every morning for a few months when I was 23. One day I rolled up my yoga mat after class and found a love letter my trainer had hidden underneath—a cream envelope, the kind of paper that's so thick and textured the edges are almost jagged. The first note said, “I love when you smile at me.” Another one said, “Your eyes are the deepest mystery. They are where Heaven is born.” He left me six in total. Nothing ever happened, but I kept all the letters and framed them. They were hanging in my bathroom for a while.

Grace Byron — Writer

My boyfriend made me a custom library stamp for my birthday a few years ago using an illustration from Laurie Colwin’s iconic Home Cooking. It’s a book that brought us together in a lot of ways—Colwin is an inspiration to me, an author and a cook and a style queen. She represents many of the things I love about New York and the stamp really brought it altogether—my huge book collection, a shared love of food. On one of our first dates we cooked her baked mustard chicken and jalapeño creamed spinach. A delicacy. It showed such close attention to who I was. We remain deeply in love and attuned to one another.

Marie Sauvage — Shibari Artist

I made a hand painted box for my love of my life. Inside was 50 reasons why I loved him, written on beautiful paper—from the cutest endearing details about him to his grandness. He cried and kept the box with him close by his side and couldn’t stop talking about how it made him feel.

Emmeline Clein — Writer (book link.)

A girl I was direly in love with cooked me a delicious fish, gifted me a set of slinky pajamas, and sent me a t-shirt via snail mail that said Forbidden Love in gothic script above a crucifix (she was not out to her religious family). One morning, she told me I looked like an angel.

I wrote her a love letter disguised as an essay I somehow convinced Catapult (rip) to publish online about Carson McCullers’ likely crush on Marilyn Monroe. I also wrote her historically anachronistic gay fan fiction I simply cannot elaborate on further.

A boy I had a sick addiction to once told me he didn’t know how God made my face. I guess I’m noticing that I find invocations of spirituality romantic? Not very original, but sometimes things are classic for a reason.

Maya Man — Artist

I think privacy is romantic, so maybe I will not share the MOST, but once he surprised me with pink cookie cutters that he 3D-printed in the shape of a heart.

Molly Soda — Artist

When I was 21 I briefly fell in love with someone at a party on a pontoon boat while visiting my Midwestern hometown. I had to fly back to New York a few days after our whirlwind romance began and on my last day he picked me up with two four lokos, some scratch-off tickets, and a bouquet of sunflowers in hand. I honestly still think of that as the perfect gesture.

Caroline Calloway — Writer (book link.)

I’ve been in love four times. Four and a half, if you count the time I lost my mind during the pandemic and let a 21 year old e-boy move into my grandma’s condo, which I do not. So four. But it’s been seven years since my last big one, and I feel odd and maybe even a little disloyal about handing out one of those sunken-shipwreck memories for free, for a Substack—even if I do adore Camille.

So here, instead, is a little tidbit from this work-heavy season of my life in Florida. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the madcap, mischievous glee I get from making these Southern fratboys tolerate my batshit insane Julia Fox New York fashion sensibilities. Like, oh you wanna fuck? Okay, well first you’re going to have to take me out to dinner in your pretty small hometown and I am going to cosplay a Luna Moth. Or Twiggy. Or the platonic ideal of the color “tangerine.” Or wear an entire clay pot worth of geraniums in my hair—including the pot. Or do my sparkliest dark green eyeshadow in the shape of a bandit’s mask. Or pair my white mascara with a floor length lavender vintage French silk slip, unbrushed butt-length hair and under one arm: My Siamese cat. (He loves to travel.)

I’m not sure if this is a humiliation kink towards Republican men or just being so in awe of myself that I have not let Florida change even a molecule of me—despite the small town Southern stares. It’s New York or nowhere and I chose nowhere until my next five books are done!!! But in the meantime, I’m sweeping myself off my goddamn feet with these iconic OOTDs, and I’m feeling very seen when everyone at his hometown bar is looking at us and he’s only looking at me.

Stef Dag — Comedian

“I will wait for you” blares through the cafe speakers. “This song is so stupid,” she says. “I know.” I say back. I’m standing in a coffee shop in Manhattan with a makeup artist I met two hours ago. She touches me up. My hair is too curled and my lipstick is cracking from the dry air. I don’t feel like myself. I’m waiting to get called onto set for a brand deal I hate. I’m what some would call a “influencer,” at worst, but what I would call a “comedian” at best. I’m irritated—I love Mumford and Sons.

I have an ex who has a Substack and sometimes I read it every morning. On this particular morning I let my fingers accidentally scroll through his latest essay: a short piece about a girl he had met while traveling in India. I committed self harm and read every word twice. This isn’t the first story of such kind that I’ve waterboarded my spirit with. He writes about his life and in that life there are pretty girls. I watch as he drinks coffee with them, a niche activity only we used to do. He hands one a rose in this particular tale. Like he chose her. I’m called onto set.

Every time the director yells cut I take off my wool gloves and check my phone. The crew probably thinks I’m addicted to social media—and I am—but on this particular morning I’m texting that very same ex. The one with the girl.

To backtrack, I was up all night on the phone with him. Arguing, mostly. Crying. Rehashing the past and polluting the future. Both of us shared what we had been doing in the three months since the breakup, people and projects and activities that felt foreign to the other. Some choices on both our ends felt emblematic of our severance. Like there was no going back. The conversation felt like our final goodbye after months of tip toeing around “maybes” and “lets check back ins.” Too much had happened. He gave a girl a rose, after all. And so in between our opposing timezones (him in India and me in NYC) and spotty Whatsapp connection, we landed on an agreement. It was the end of our story. The phone clicked. We were hemispheres apart.

The next morning I woke up at 7 A.M. for this aforementioned brand shoot. I hadn’t slept, obviously. Before opening my eyes I checked my phone to see if he had text me again. Surprisingly, he had.

“My dad had a heart attack.” He was on his way to Chicago.

It’s 9:44pm, on the very same day as my shoot, as the Substack, as Mumford & Sons. I’m on a flight to Chicago to hold the hand of the boy I love. Romantic? Sure. Stupid? Probably. Our story as we knew it might be over but maybe this is a trilogy. Or maybe story's never really end. Or maybe we can decide to alter their course, 10,000 feet in the air.

My flight’s taking off. My hand hovers over another bad pop/pseudo-folk song on Spotify. “I’ll be there soon,” I text, as my cellular data and uncertainty dissolve into the night sky.