Summer
I step into my room, still raw from confiding in Ethan about my family, my past. There’s a sting in my chest, a hollow ache that somehow feels like it’s shifting something inside me, a tiny crack in the armor I’ve carried for so long.
And there it is on the bed, a yellow flower. Bright against the muted bedding, impossible to ignore. Somehow it seems out of place in December, yet perfectly alive. He must know some secret place where wildflowers still bloom in the dead of winter.
I reach for it, fingertips brushing the soft petals.
The touch is delicate, grounding. Then I unfold the note, hands trembling slightly, careful as if the paper might shatter in my grip.
My eyes scan the words, reading them slowly, reverently, like opening a window I’m not yet sure I’m ready to peer through.