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Mariya
"They're wrong. All wrong."
I stare down at the bouquet, my fingers tracing the velvety petals and crisp stems, searching for intent amidst the array of blooms. To the ordinary eye, the bouquet may have appeared lavish, a romantic gesture. But to me, it spoke an entirely different language.
Each flower has a meaning, a secret language whispered from one person to another. And whoever put together this bouquet clearly had no idea what they were saying.
The striped carnations scream an outright refusal to me, their delicate bands of color playing a deceptive trick. The geraniums, with their robust blooms, carry with them the stinging sentiment of folly or stupidity. And the begonias, with their soft, waxy petals, a glaring warning—beware.
But aside from the dubious meanings of the flowers, the arrangement itself is haphazard at best. The blooms are clustered without thought, their heights and textures clashing rather than complementing one another. Besides the carnations, geraniums and begonias are not often found in cut-flower bouquets.
Sighing, I grab a vase from a nearby shelf. I can’t let the flowers remain in such a state, mostly because they are inadvertently shouting insults at me.
I start with the tallest stems, trimming them at an angle to allow for better water absorption. They form the central structure of my new arrangement. I then fill the gaps with medium-height blooms, doing my best to ensure that the colors play off one another while also paying attention to texture. The begonias and geraniums, once adversaries, now seem to converse in harmony under my expert hand.
The smaller flowers, the striped carnations, are gently tucked in, their heads peeking out just above the rim of the vase. Their contrasting colors break the monotony and breathe life into the whole arrangement.
With one last critical glance, I step back, admiring my handiwork. It's a portrait of nature, each flower swaying and leaning, lending support, giving and taking space, creating a harmonious display.
While the original bouquet's message was miscast—whether intentionally or out of unfamiliarity—I can't help the small, wry smile tugging at my lips. Sending flowers is an endearing gesture, and I wonder if it’s Damien's attempt at bridging the gap between us—an olive branch, perhaps, even if presented all wrong.
Regardless of the intent, the act itself is sweet. Misguided but sweet. If nothing else, it makes it abundantly clear that Damien doesn’t know a daffodil from a daisy, but at least he tried.
And maybe that's worth something.
The crisp paper and the glint of my pen are more inviting than usual. I've got a bone to pick with Damien, and our silent duet through letters is a welcome distraction. The white space beckons, so I dive in.
Dear Damien,
To say that your taste in flowers is terrible would be an understatement. Or do you have an exceptionally good relationship with a mischievous florist who has a knack for playing tricks on the uninitiated? Those colors, those choices… you couldn't have chosen worse if you tried.
But fear not! All is not lost. As your self-appointed floral guru, I am more than willing to enlighten you about the beautiful world of botany. And it isn’t centered on how to pluck the prettiest blooms from a shop.
Flowers, you see, have a language of their own—a soft-spoken secret dialogue passed down through the ages. If you'd like to know more, here are a few things to start with:
Goldenrods, bright and yellow like the first light of dawn, signify encouragement. They're a beacon, a ray of hope, asking the recipient to keep their chin up and march ahead.
White hyacinths, pure and untouched, whisper prayers for someone. They're a silent ode, a quiet reminder that someone out there is holding you in their thoughts, wishing you well.
And the morning glory, with its tendrils and blooms that greet the day with wide-eyed wonder? It murmurs affection. It is a soft, gentle nod to the beginning of feelings that could bloom into something more.
Petals, shapes, and colors encompass a vast universe, each carrying a message waiting to be unraveled. You've started our floral conversation with a bang—albeit not the best one—but the dialogue can only get better from here.
Maybe it's time to stop lurking in the shadows behind letters and intermediaries. Maybe it's time to step into the light and have a real conversation. How about dinner? I'll even promise to go easy on you.
And if you're a good student, I might just introduce you to flowers that whisper sweet nothings and dreams of a brighter tomorrow.
Until then,
Mariya
P.S. I've always believed that a hands-on lesson is the best. That being said, I await your RSVP. And remember, Damien, you can't hide behind Oskar forever.
With a proud smile on my face, I hand the letter to Oskar. He chuckles and tucks it into his suit jacket pocket before heading off, leaving me alone once more. After he’s gone, I go upstairs to my room.
Like most of the house, my room boasts an understated elegance—neutral tones dominate the color palette, giving it a calm, almost monastic atmosphere. It's serene but without the vibrancy and warmth of a personal touch. There is no clutter, no memories, no signs of a life lived. It could be any room in any high-end hotel, waiting for its next occupant.
The room's one saving grace is its window—the expansive glass pane frames the garden outside, which has become my daily dose of beauty and color. Sunlight filters in through the lace curtains, casting dappled patterns on the pristine white duvet. The gentle sway of the flowers and rustling leaves on the bushes provide a silent lullaby to my restless thoughts.
