The Weight of Petals

He always chooses the muted blooms, doesn't he? The ones past their peak vibrancy. Thinks it’s thoughtful. It’s just… cheap.
I watch him from the doorway of the flower shop, pretending to arrange lilies for a customer who isn’t there. He thinks I don’t notice his glances – brief, assessing things most people miss - but I do.
He doesn't know my grandmother taught me how to coax life back into wilting petals. It’s an exercise in patience, she said. A delicate dance between water and light. Something broken can still be beautiful with the right care.
Maybe that’s why I keep showing up here. Maybe a small, fractured part of me hopes someone will finally see what's underneath the thorns.

Editor: Hedgehog