“And?”
And every day, my answer is soft, honest, and mine to give.
“No.”
Some of those meanings fit. A few landed so close to home they made my chest ache. But none of those flowers felt like mine.
After a while, I start to wonder if maybe I’m just not someone who gets to have a favourite.
Maybe favourites are for people who grew up choosing things. Who learned to want instead of just make do.
Every day, I wait for Kieran to tire of me. For the sigh. For the patient smile that never reaches his eyes. For the unspoken message—you’re difficult—hovering just beneath his politeness.
It never happens.
He just smiles—real, bright, starting in his eyes—and brings another flower the next day.
My room has become a garden.
It’s almost accidental when it happens.
I’m taking the trash out through the side entrance, the bag heavy in my hand, the plastic cutting into my palm. I dump it in the bin, wipe my hands on my apron, and turn to go back inside.
That’s when I notice a man near the corner.
I don’t recognize him. He must be new. He has a wooden crate of loose flowers, nothing fancy, no arrangements or wrapping. Just stems laid side-by-side, like a wild, colourful offering. The flowers are not perfect. Some are slightly wilted. Some have petals missing. They look like they were picked from a field, not grown in a greenhouse.
And then I see it.
Bright yellow. Unmistakable, even from a distance.
I stop walking.
My eyes fix on it before my mind catches up. I step closer before I’ve even decided to move.
The man looks up. He is older, his face weathered, his hands stained with soil. He doesn’t ask if I need help. He doesn’t try to sell me anything. He just watches, patient, while I reach for the flower.
It’s imperfect. A little wild.
The stem bends slightly when I touch it.
A fist closes in my chest.
“How much?” I ask, my voice soft.
He names a price so small it feels symbolic.
I hand him the money before I can second-guess myself.
“What flower is this?” I ask.
He smiles, the lines around his eyes deepening. “Dandelion.”
I’ve seen dandelions my whole life. Scattered through meadows. Crowding the edges of highways. Shouldering up through broken concrete. I never thought anyone bought them. They’re the flowers people dig out of their lawns and toss in the trash.
But here it is. In my hand. Chosen.
I walk back toward the café slowly, the stem warm between my fingers. I turn the corner and almost walk into Kieran.
