By Vanshika Gupta
I brought you roses—
not for their scent,
but to fill the hollow
your gaze left behind.
You knew how to coax them,
to turn petals toward the light.
You loved me most
when I looked like them—
soft where you lingered,
still when you stayed,
easy to carry,
easier to hold
than to know.
So I turned the ache
into something tender—
thorns tucked beneath bloom,
my shape bent to hold.
You marveled at the stillness,
how I settled in your hands,
quiet as arrangement.
And I—
I loved the way you looked at me
when I was easy to love.
So I kept giving—
not knowing
when love slipped
into surrender.
In time,
the path wore thin—
petals trailing
like unsaid things.
The garden turned
its face from you,
but still, I carried
what stayed quiet,
what I couldn’t
leave behind.
I bound the stems
in my mother’s scarf,
soft with years—
the knot biting deeper
than the thorn.
I kept them close,
and with every step,
left a little more
of myself behind.
When the roses began to fall,
I held them tighter—
even as thorns sank deeper
into my skin.
I gathered the petals,
pressed them back into place,
and tried to make them whole
as best I could.
Until the bouquet slipped—
petals loosening
with a softness that hurt,
my hands too worn
to hold them together.
What stayed
was the memory of bloom,
folded into the silence I carried.
You asked why I stopped.
Why the roses lost their scent.
Not knowing—
they were never just flowers,
but the quiet ache of devotion
left at your door.
Now—
my hands are bare,
aching to hold a sting
that’s no longer there.
The vase remains empty,
brimming with silence—
as if the ache itself
has taken root
in the absence.
And I,
no longer waiting,
just learning
how to sit
without the hurt
I once called home.