A flower is found, its color dimming beneath the vanishing sun. Its petals curl gently, fragile beneath even the softest touch, too weary to resist. I cradle it between my fingers, its stem still standing tall. Like a lover, I tug, asking the wind if my thoughts are true. A petal falls. She loves me. A whisper of grace. My fingers trace the memories we’ve shared, her laughter filling my air, her eyes piercing into my soul, that tender look she reserves for the one she’s chosen. Another tug. She loves me not. The air turns colder against my skin. Silence swells, heavier than our arguments. There’s no fury left, only distance growing wider. She loves me. A faint flicker of hope stirs inside me, a light too dim to break the dark. Yet her voice echoes in my mind, looping endlessly. She loves me not. The petal crumbles beneath my careless touch, and something deep within me aches. There is no grand finale, no clean ending, just the quiet drift into empty space, nothing solid to grasp. She still loves me. I speak it aloud, a half-truth dressed as a prayer. Maybe if I say it, it will become real. Maybe if I bend it just right, it will last a little longer. She loves me not. The final petal, once strong, lets go. It flutters down, brushing the earth as if to kiss away its own wounds. I lie back, my head in the grass before night fully falls, fingers stained with the remnants of love and rust. The flower is gone now, and only one question remains: Why is it that hearts can stop, yet still ache on?
