By mid-morning on February 14, the city is already performing love. Flower vendors line major roads with red roses wrapped in shiny cellophane. Restaurants advertise “exclusive couples’ menus.” Hotels promise unforgettable experiences. On social media, timelines bloom with curated affection surprise proposals, candlelit dinners, matching outfits, dramatic captions about forever. For a few hours, romance feels like a public competition. But beneath the roses and filtered photos lies a quieter story, one that rarely trends: the real cost of Valentine’s Day.
For many young people and low-income earners, the financial pressure begins weeks before the day itself. Inflation has stretched household budgets thin. Food prices are rising. Transport costs fluctuate unpredictably. Rent is due. Yet February 14 arrives with its own set of expectations. A bouquet that cost a modest amount in January suddenly doubles in price.
Restaurants introduce fixed menus that are significantly more expensive than their usual offerings. Ride fares surge. Even chocolates become luxury items. What is marketed as a celebration of love quietly becomes an economic test. “You can’t show up empty-handed,” a 24-year-old university graduate told me. He had been unemployed for months but still borrowed money to plan a dinner he felt he could not afford to skip. “It’s not about the money,” he insisted, then paused. “But it is.”
Economists often describe this as seasonal demand driving price increases a predictable pattern in consumer markets. When demand spikes around specific events, suppliers adjust accordingly. But beyond textbook economics lies a social layer that is harder to quantify. Valentine’s Day spending is not just about desire; it is about obligation.
For students living on allowances, junior workers earning entry-level salaries, or families managing tight budgets, the choice is rarely between spending and not spending. It is between meeting expectations and risking disappointment. Some admit to using credit facilities or borrowing informally from friends. Others cut back on essentials to make room for romance. In a country already navigating economic strain, love becomes another line item in an already crowded ledger.
The emotional cost can be even heavier. Valentine’s Day has a way of magnifying personal circumstances. For those in loving relationships, it can be joyful. For those in complicated or unhappy partnerships, it can be stressful. For singles, it can feel isolating—even if they are otherwise content.
Psychologists note that comparison culture intensifies during highly publicized celebrations. Social media platforms turn private affection into public spectacle. Algorithms reward grand gestures and photogenic moments, rarely the quiet, consistent work that sustains real relationships. A simple dinner at home does not trend. A dramatic airport surprise does. Over time, this curated display reshapes expectations. Love begins to look expensive, performative, and camera-ready.
A relationship counselor I spoke with described February 14 as “performance day.” According to her, couples often argue in the days leading up to Valentine’s Day—not because they do not care about each other, but because the day forces them to measure their relationship against an idealized standard. “People come in saying, ‘He didn’t do enough,’ or ‘She expected too much,’” she explained.
“Underneath that is usually a deeper issue feeling unseen or unappreciated all year round.” The pressure to produce a visible symbol of affection can overshadow ongoing communication, respect, and emotional safety. In extreme cases, individuals remain in unhealthy relationships to avoid the stigma of being alone on a day that glorifies coupledom.
There is also the mental health dimension that rarely makes headlines. For those grieving lost partners, healing from breakups, or navigating infertility and marital challenges, Valentine’s Day can reopen wounds. It can amplify loneliness in a world that seems temporarily divided into “celebrated” and “forgotten.”
Mental health professionals emphasize that such feelings are normal but often suppressed because the day demands cheerfulness. When everyone appears happy online, it becomes harder to admit personal pain. The expectation to feel loved on a single date can create a false benchmark for self-worth.
Commercialization plays a powerful role in shaping these dynamics. Modern Valentine’s Day has been carefully constructed by marketing campaigns that link affection to consumption. Gift guides suggest that love can be measured in price tags. Advertising rarely shows modest gestures; it showcases diamonds, luxury getaways, premium experiences.
Businesses, understandably, capitalize on opportunity. Yet when romance becomes transactional, it risks losing depth. A partner’s value is subtly tied to spending power. The question shifts from “Do you care?” to “How much did you spend?” In that shift, something essential is diluted.
And yet, it would be simplistic to dismiss Valentine’s Day entirely. For many couples, the day offers a deliberate pause in busy lives a reminder to express gratitude and affection. It can prompt overdue conversations, thoughtful gestures, or reconciliation. The problem is not the celebration itself but the narrowing of love into a single, highly monetized performance.
Genuine intimacy is built over time in daily acts of patience, shared responsibilities, emotional availability, and respect. It is found in checking in after a long day, in supporting a partner’s ambitions, in standing present during hardship. These moments rarely trend, but they endure.
As the roses wilt and the hashtags fade, what remains is the question Valentine’s Day rarely asks: what does love cost the other 364 days of the year? Not in money, but in effort, vulnerability, and consistency. The real cost of Valentine’s Day is not merely the inflated price of flowers or dinner reservations. It is the pressure to equate love with spectacle, to measure devotion in receipts and reposts. When stripped of performance and comparison, love becomes less expensive and far more demanding in the ways that truly matter.