The bouquet sat on my desk, bold and unapologetic. Roses, lilies, and sprigs of baby’s breath tucked between them, wrapped in crisp white paper. They smelled too sweet, almost suffocating in the small office. Everyone who passed by glanced at me with the same teasing grin. “Someone’s lucky,” they’d whisper. And for a moment, I felt it. Until I saw the photo.
It was my friend Sara who showed me. Her phone lit up at lunch, her face twisting as she scrolled. “Clara,” she said, her voice cautious, hesitant. She turned the screen toward me, and my stomach lurched. There it was—another bouquet. Identical. Same flowers, same wrapping, even the same ivory satin bow. Only this one was sitting on another woman’s table, tagged with his name and a heart emoji.
I could hardly breathe.
The fork slipped from my hand, clattering against my plate. “It has to be a coincidence,” I muttered, my voice thin, breaking. But the tag in the photo ruined me. Same card. Same handwriting. The message I had read just hours earlier—“To the love of my life, forever yours.”
Two bouquets. One lie.
The office noise faded into static. My hands trembled as I clutched my phone, scrolling back to his message from that morning. “Thought of you today. Can’t wait for dinner.” I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to. But the evidence was staring at me, mocking me in pixels and petals.
That evening, I didn’t confront him right away. I set the bouquet carefully in a vase by the window, watching the last streaks of sunset light pour through the petals. The red of the roses glowed like blood. They didn’t feel beautiful anymore. They felt poisoned.
When he came home, humming as he dropped his keys on the counter, I watched him with new eyes. The wrinkle in his shirt, the faint trace of cologne, the easy smile he tossed at me—it all felt rehearsed.
“Long day?” he asked, leaning down to kiss me. I turned my face just enough that his lips brushed my cheek. His smile faltered.
“Who else did you send flowers to today?” I asked, my voice calm but sharp enough to cut.
His eyes flickered, just for a second, but I caught it. A crack in his perfect mask. “What are you talking about?” he said, too quickly.
I pulled up the photo on my phone and held it out. The color drained from his face.
Silence.
I could hear the clock ticking in the kitchen, each second heavier than the last.
Finally, he sighed, rubbing his temples. “Clara, please… it’s not what you think.”
I laughed, bitter and hollow. “It’s exactly what I think. You sent me flowers to cover your tracks. But you forgot something, didn’t you? The world is small, Daniel. Too small for lies like yours.”
His lips parted, his mouth working as if searching for words. But nothing came.
I stepped past him, the scent of lilies clinging to me like smoke. “I don’t want your flowers,” I whispered. “I want the truth.”
He reached for me, but I pulled away. My chest burned, my vision blurred, but my voice stayed steady. “Don’t ever give me the same bouquet you give her.”
I left the vase by the window, the roses already beginning to wilt, their edges curling inward. Beauty fading into decay—just like us.
Final Thought
Love isn’t in the grand gestures. It’s in the truth behind them. Flowers don’t mean forever if they’re meant for someone else, too. When he sent me the same bouquet as her, he didn’t just betray me—he betrayed the meaning of every rose, every word, every promise.
