Gemotions

The sunflowers sat on the kitchen table, their yellow faces mocking her. *Someone* thought enough of her to send these. She, however, felt a dull ache in her chest, a familiar tightening that always accompanied a good deed directed her way. She had a habit of underperforming, of making the simple things complicated, a talent for letting everyone down.

She poked at a drooping petal, her lip curling. It was probably a mistake. The florist had probably gotten the order wrong. Why would anyone *choose* to send her flowers? She imagined the sender – probably some poor, unlucky soul who’d been guilted into it.

The scent was overwhelming. She hated the smell of them, felt an immediate urge to take them out to the trash. She forced herself to sit, staring at the cheerful blooms, and hating the tiny seed of hope that had started to sprout within her.