the flowers; h.s.

day six

I'm afraid to touch the flowers now, in fear of them completely falling apart in my hands. I know that the moment I move the stems to change the water, the petals will fall down, down, down. And there will be nothing left but the little crumbs that used to be apart of something beautiful.

I now wish that he would have gotten me something else besides flowers. Because flowers die and wilt and maybe he knew that, you know? Maybe he knew that if he got me flowers then they eventually would have to die and wilt and not be there as a remembrance of him. Maybe this was his plan, for the flowers to die and hopefully my love for him would slowly die sometime afterwards.

It's cruel, but I can't say that I blame him. I wouldn't want to travel the world, feeling the burden of someone else's love weighing on my shoulders. I wouldn't be able to handle it, so I'm guessing that he wouldn't be able to either.

So I stop changing the water in the flowers because I don't want them to fall apart. Because they are so beautiful, even in their soon-to-be wilted state, and they don't deserve to fall apart. They have done nothing wrong except sit in a vase and look pretty. What's the harm in that?

I need to stop dragging on. I have come to the conclusion that being alone in this room is doing nothing for me except making me go mad. I can't leave in fear that when I get back, he would have come and saw that I wasn't there and left. I can't leave because I might come back to see that the flowers disintegrated into a million pieces. And what would I do then?

The flowers are all I have.