The room is dark, and I am alone. I don't know why I keep repeating this to myself like it is some unknown fact that I have just realized to be true. It's been true for almost two weeks now.
The room is dark, and I am lying in bed. Awake. Alone. Tired, but not tired in the sense of needing sleep. I was tired in the sense of it being twelve days, and he's still not here. He's still not here, and I am still alone, and the flowers are still wilted.
And I can see the dead flowers from their place on the window. They have not moved, and they will not move until he is here to move them. I'm not sure when that will be, but I'm hoping more sooner than later.
I have been counting the days not only on paper, but in my head as well. I do this so if he does come running through my door, I can remind him of how long it has been since he left me. How long it has been since he's seen the only two things that he left behind: a bouquet of flowers that would wilt all too soon and me.
YOU ARE READING
the flowers; h.s.
Fanfictionthe flowers are a symbol of her presence but his absence.
