Gemotions

The florist's delivery boy, barely out of his teens, grinned at her. He didn't offer to put the bouquet down, just held them aloft, a splash of color against the drab hallway. She fumbled for a tip, heart hammering against her ribs. He gave a curt nod, the smile vanishing as he turned and hurried away. She clutched the roses, their scent cloying, and closed the door. She knew who they were from. The thought coiled in her stomach, a sour knot.

She placed the flowers on the kitchen table, their vibrant hues a mockery of the gray light filtering through the window. She avoided looking at them, busying herself with the mundane – making coffee, scrolling through emails. Each rustle of paper, each click of the mouse, felt amplified.

Later, she found herself staring at the arrangement again. She reached out, her fingers trembling, to trace the velvety petals. No card. Just the flowers, a silent, accusatory offering. She wanted to smash the vase, to scream. Instead, she sat down and began to cry, the tears tracking silent paths down her cheeks, a river of unspoken hurt.