He lifts one shoulder, his tone unhurried. “I like knowing things like that about my friends. Favourite movie. Favourite colour. Favourite food. All of it. Every last favourite.”
I swallow.
No one has ever wanted to know my favourite anything. Julian wanted to know if dinner was ready. My father wanted to know if I had finished my chores. My mother wanted to know if I was okay.
Kieran wants to know my favourite flower.
He doesn’tneedthis information. It won’t help him. It won’t make his life easier or his day better. He just wants to collect it, hold it, keep it somewhere.
“We’ll start with flowers,” he adds. “Find your favourite.”
“How?” I ask.
His smile turns crooked, his eyes holding mine. “You’ll see.”
The next day, during break, he’s already there when I step outside. His hands are resting on his knees, and between his fingers, a single stem with a small, bright bloom. He holds it out to me as I sit down.
“This one’s a daisy,” he says. “They symbolize innocence, purity… new beginnings.”
I take it carefully, my fingers gentle around the stem. It’s cool and firm between my palm and fingertips. The petals feel impossibly soft, so soft I want to be tender with them. I turn it over in my hand, watching the light catch the white petals, the yellow center, the thin green veins running up the stem.
“It’s beautiful,” I say honestly.
He watches my face, not the flower. “Is it the one?”
I study the flower again, hoping for something deeper than just thinking it’s pretty. A tug in my chest. A whisper that saysthis one. But there’s nothing. Only a soft, distant appreciation. The flower is lovely. Its meaning touches something in me. But it doesn’t feel like mine.
I shake my head.
He nods, accepting the answer without hesitation. “Okay.” He smiles. “That’s one down.”
The next day, it’s a sweet pea.
The stem is slender, almost delicate, with small, ruffled blossoms in soft pink and white. They look like tiny butterflies, like something that might lift off the stem and float away if I am not careful.
“For gratitude,” he explains. “A quiet thank you. And for departure. For saying goodbye without looking back.”
I think of the house I left behind. The ring I set on the desk. The note I wrote. The sweet pea is for all of that. For walking out and never looking back. For the courage it took to leave.
It’s meaningful. But it’s not mine.
“No,” I say.
He nods. “That’s two.”
The next, a violet.
A tiny, deep-purple bloom. “For loyalty,” he shares. “For a life lived quietly, but with roots that run deep.”
One morning, a forget-me-not.
A cluster of tiny blue stars. “For remembrance,” he says softly. “For being truly seen and chosen not to be forgotten.”
Another day, lavender.
A stem of soft, fragrant purple. “For calm,” he whispers, his voice gentle. “For peace after a long storm.”
Every day, the same question after I’ve held it, studied it, learned its name and its meaning.
