Pink Roses

She always hated pink roses—except the year she needed them most.

She passed by the red bouquet in the grocery store. Pausing at their beauty. Her fingers hovered. She chose nothing.

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The pink roses were on her kitchen table when she came home. Clear glass vase. Water already beginning to bead against the stems. No note.

 

She stood there with her purse still on her shoulder.

“They’ll wilt fast,” she said, setting her keys down beside them.

She left them anyway.

 

In the mornings, the light found them first. Soft. Certain. One petal fell by Wednesday. She picked it up and rolled it between her fingers, surprised at how much weight something so thin could carry.

On Thursday, she changed the water.

“I don’t even like pink,” she murmured, trimming the stems at an angle. Her hand trembled once before steadying.

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By the end of the week, the blooms had opened fully, edges curling but holding. She caught herself adjusting the vase so it faced the window. Later, she brushed a fallen petal from the table and pressed it flat against her palm before letting it go.

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When the last rose bent too far to save, she lifted the bouquet from the vase and held it close for just a second longer than necessary.

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“I didn’t know,” she said quietly.