Gemotions

The lilies arrived at dawn, their white petals like ghostly hands reaching out from the green stems. No card. Just a silent accusation. She slammed the vase onto the kitchen counter, the water sloshing, a small act of defiance. He'd done this before, this cruel anonymity, this way of making her guess, to torture her with uncertainty.

She spent the morning calling florists, each call a tight knot in her stomach. “Just a delivery of lilies? White lilies?” she’d ask, her voice brittle. No one claimed responsibility. That afternoon, she started on the photographs. Every frame of them together, every smiling face, became the target of her simmering frustration. Scissors sang through glossy paper.

Later, she packed the shredded remnants into a black trash bag, the floral scent of the lilies now faintly nauseating. She’d leave it outside his apartment door. No note. Just a message, delivered.