When the delivery man wheeled the bouquet through the office doors, every head turned.
Roses. Dozens of them. Deep crimson, the kind that fills a room with their perfume before you even touch them.
And they were for me.
Or at least, I thought they were.
It was supposed to be the kind of grand gesture every woman dreams of. Flowers so large they blocked my computer screen, coworkers whispering in envy, my heart swelling with pride.
But then I opened the card.
And my name wasn’t on it.
I had been dating James for three years. He wasn’t perfect—forgetful, distracted, sometimes a little too quick with excuses—but he had a charm that made you forgive him. That boyish grin, those warm brown eyes.
My friends always teased me. “He’s smooth,” they’d say. “Almost too smooth.”
But I brushed it off. James loved me, I was sure of it. We had plans. We talked about buying a house, maybe starting a family in a year or two.
So when our anniversary rolled around and I didn’t hear from him that morning, I told myself he must have something planned. James loved surprises.
I just didn’t know the surprise would nearly destroy me.
It was 2 p.m. when the delivery man walked into the office. My coworkers gasped, their eyes darting between the roses and me. Someone whispered, “Wow, lucky girl.”
I felt my cheeks flush as he set the vase on my desk. It was massive—at least three dozen roses, their stems wrapped in satin ribbon, the kind of arrangement that cost more than my week’s paycheck.
“From a Mr. James Walker,” the delivery man said with a wink.
I smiled, my heart doing somersaults. He remembered. He actually remembered.
I waited until the office buzz died down before I slid the little white envelope from its holder. My hands trembled as I unfolded the card, expecting something like Happy anniversary, love of my life.
Instead, I read:
“To Hannah—Forever my sunshine. J.”
Hannah.
Not me.
The room spun. For a moment, I thought maybe it was a mistake. Maybe the florist had mixed up the cards.
But my coworkers were watching, their faces curious, waiting for me to gush.
I forced a smile, shoved the card back into the envelope, and mumbled, “Excuse me.”
I locked myself in the bathroom, my chest heaving. My reflection in the mirror looked pale, my lipstick smudged, my eyes wide with disbelief.
I called him.
“Hey, babe!” James answered cheerfully. “Get my surprise?”
I swallowed hard. “Yeah, I got them. They’re… beautiful.”
A pause. “You don’t sound excited.”
“Funny thing,” I said, my voice cracking. “The card wasn’t for me. It said ‘To Hannah.’”
Silence.
Then the sound of him exhaling sharply. “Shit.”
“Who is she, James?” My voice trembled. “Tell me who she is.”
He didn’t answer.
“Don’t lie to me. Not when you just sent her flowers.”
Finally, he muttered, “She’s… she’s someone from work. It’s not what you think.”
“Not what I think?” I snapped. “You called her your sunshine. You sent her the roses I thought were mine. What exactly am I supposed to think?”
His voice turned desperate. “It was a mistake. The florist mixed up the cards. I swear, those flowers were supposed to be for you.”
“Then why does she get pet names I’ve never even heard before?”
He didn’t answer. And in that silence, the truth screamed louder than words.
I didn’t go back to my desk right away. I couldn’t. My hands were shaking too badly, and the bathroom felt like the only place I could breathe.
When I finally emerged, my coworkers had moved on, the roses still sitting proudly on my desk like some cruel joke. I stared at them for a long time before I picked them up, marched to the lobby, and left them there with the receptionist.
“Give them to anyone who wants them,” I muttered.
That night, James showed up at my apartment, pleading, swearing it was all a misunderstanding. He tried to kiss me, to hold me, but I stepped back.
Because the thing is—it wasn’t about the flowers. It wasn’t even about Hannah.
It was about the fact that, for one split second, when I opened that card, I saw the truth laid bare. That he had words for someone else he never gave to me. That his love wasn’t all mine.
And once you know that, you can never go back.
The roses wilted within a week. And so did my relationship with James.
Now, whenever I see a bouquet of red roses, I don’t think of romance. I think of that card.
And I remind myself—I deserve to be someone’s only sunshine, not just one of many.
