The day you broke my heart you had surprised me with an orchid. I remember it being so small that its slender stem had to be supported by a dowel, cradled in a plastic planter no bigger than my palm. It was so delicately designed, the petals brushed with the most beautiful color pink I had seen. I was so scared of killing it, I told you. You laughed and assured that you wouldn't let me, that it was easy to nurture into something lovely. You pointed to the tag, noting the directions for its care, and I smiled.
We spent the evening in your kitchen, cooking that same pasta recipe we had made so many times before. And as the room permeated with the smell of wine and bread, we laughed at ourselves. The picture I took of you, still etched into my mind, standing over that stovetop, smiling at your own jokes. How funny it was to love you and fall into your words, hanging onto every sentence like you had crafted the conversation just for me. As we slipped into our stupor, you cradled me like I had cradled that orchid, just as delicate, and just as gentle.
You told me to leave that same night, and I departed too quickly to remember your gift. The small orchid, still sitting on your desk corner as I walked through your doorway. But you had hurt me, and I wanted nothing more than to sink into my own stomach, twisted and shaking with grief. I believed that as long as I didn’t look back, there was nothing to remember you by.
Though, I still wonder if that orchid is on your desk side. If you still take care of it like you had told me to, and if you still believe in its promised beauty and brilliance. Part of me hopes that you do- that you think of me as you care for its fragile presence. And one day, when it is full of life and stronger, you’ll return it to me again.
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