The solitary rose was lying on the table when I woke up. I had completely forgotten about putting it in the flower vase as my mind was preoccupied when I arrived home.
As I examined it, I noticed the blemishes were starting to set in. It was just a rosebud, its petals not yet fully open. "Now, I guess it'll never fully bloom," I mused to myself "just like you and I."
"Thanks for the rose. You didn't have to, but that's really sweet of you."
"That's the least I could do for you..."
(a momentary pause. but the silence was telling and deafening at the same time.)
"...I...I have something to say to you."
"No. Please don't. You don't have. I know. Just as I know every little line on your palms from caressing them all this time. Just like I know how your eyes gently flicker in your sleep. I know because I know what's in your heart, just like you know what's in mine."
"I still love you.."
"And I, you, too. But go. Before you can hurt me even more."
As he slowly turned and walked away, I followed him with my eyes; sight blurred and misted with tears unfalling. He never looked back, not once.
And as he turned at the corner, I felt the thorns of the rose pressing against the palm of my hands, sharp with pain and hurt.
For a good hour or so, I was holding the rose as I sat by the table. I was aware that as every moment passed, the wilting would become irreversible. Was it still even worth putting the flower in a vase despite its condition? Or would it be better just throw it out once it is completely dark and dead?
For once, I was at a loss of what to do.
With the rose.
But as for him and me, I knew it was far too wilted, far too late.