When the flowers arrived at my office, everyone turned their heads. A giant bouquet of red roses—twenty-four of them—wrapped in crisp white paper, tied with a velvet ribbon. My coworkers gasped, some clapped, others teased me. “Someone’s in love!” they said.
For a moment, I believed it. Until I read the card.
Daniel and I had been dating for a little over a year. He was charming in the quiet way—always remembering to bring me coffee when I was stressed, sending good-morning texts, holding my hand in crowded rooms like he couldn’t believe I was his.
I wasn’t the kind of woman who expected grand gestures. In fact, I always thought flowers were cliché. But that day, when the bouquet arrived, something inside me fluttered. He had remembered, I thought. He had thought of me, in the middle of a busy Wednesday, and decided to make me feel special.
I reached for the little white envelope tucked among the roses. My fingers trembled with excitement.
The card inside was short. Just one line, in Daniel’s unmistakable handwriting:
“Last night was unforgettable. I can’t wait to see you again. –D”
My stomach dropped. Last night?
Last night he had told me he was working late. He hadn’t come over. We hadn’t even spoken except for a short text: “Sorry, can’t talk, exhausted. Goodnight.”
The room around me blurred as my coworkers buzzed about how lucky I was. I forced a smile, mumbled a thank-you, and escaped to the bathroom, clutching the card like a burning coal.
Unforgettable. See you again.
Those weren’t words meant for me.
That evening, I confronted him.
He was in the kitchen when I walked in, opening a beer like it was any other night. “Hey, babe,” he said, flashing me a smile that used to melt me.
I set the roses on the counter. His smile faltered.
“Nice flowers,” he said carefully.
“Yes,” I replied, my voice shaking. “They came with a card. Do you want to read it out loud, or should I?”
His jaw tightened. He didn’t reach for the card. Instead, he ran a hand through his hair and muttered, “It’s not what you think.”
The cliché made my blood boil. “Not what I think? Because I think you sent these to the wrong woman. I think you were with someone last night while I sat at home waiting for a text. And I think you’re about to lie to my face.”
Silence stretched between us. He didn’t deny it. He didn’t even try.
Finally, he whispered, “Her name is Claire.”
And just like that, the world I thought I knew splintered.
I left that night with nothing but my keys and my purse. The roses stayed on the counter, their petals lush and perfect, mocking me with every breath of their sweet perfume.
In the weeks that followed, Daniel tried calling. He left voicemails, sent messages, even showed up outside my apartment once. But I didn’t answer. Not because I didn’t want to—I did. My heart ached for him, for what we had, for what I thought was real.
But the truth is this: once you know someone is capable of giving their love, their time, their words to someone else, you can never unknow it. Trust isn’t something you can tape back together.
Now, every time I see roses in a shop window, I feel the sting again. But it doesn’t crush me anymore. It reminds me that I deserve love that doesn’t get lost in delivery, love that never leaves me guessing whose name is written on the card.
Final Thought
Sometimes the most painful truths arrive dressed as gifts.
