The roses were stunning—twenty-four red blooms, their petals velvety and perfect, tied together with a satin ribbon. They arrived at my door on a Tuesday afternoon, the card tucked neatly inside: “For the love of my life. Forever yours.” My heart swelled, my cheeks flushed. After months of him being distant, after all the late nights at work, this was the reassurance I craved. I pressed the flowers to my face, inhaling their sweet perfume, believing his love was blooming again. But then my phone buzzed—and everything unraveled.
It was a text from my neighbor, Clara. She sent me a photo. Same roses. Same ribbon. Same handwriting on the card. “Did he mean to send these to me by mistake?” she wrote.
My blood turned to ice. My stomach dropped so violently I nearly dropped the vase. I called her immediately, my voice shaking. “Clara, where did you get those?”
“They were delivered here an hour ago,” she said hesitantly. “The delivery guy realized he had the wrong address and came back for them. But not before I opened the card. It said, ‘For the love of my life. Forever yours.’” She paused. “I thought maybe he mixed up the cards. But…Sarah, it was signed with his name.”
The room spun. My hands trembled so badly I had to set the vase down before it shattered. My roses. Her roses. Both from him. Both carrying the same words that now felt like knives.
When he came home that evening, I confronted him, the bouquet on the counter like evidence in a trial. “Who else got these?” I demanded, my voice breaking. His face drained, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. “It’s not what you think,” he stammered.
“Not what I think?” I snapped, thrusting Clara’s photo into his face. “You sent the same roses to her. The same words. You called her the love of your life!”
He ran his hand through his hair, shame clouding his eyes. “It was a mistake,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean for you to find out like this.”
My chest burned. “A mistake? A mistake is forgetting to take out the trash. A mistake is burning dinner. This—” I jabbed at the flowers—“this is betrayal delivered in a ribbon.”
Backstory clawed at me. The sudden bursts of charm after long nights away. The way he guarded his phone, the strange energy between him and Clara whenever they crossed paths. I had pushed my doubts aside, told myself I was paranoid. But the roses confirmed everything. They weren’t just flowers. They were proof.
I turned away, tears streaming. “I was supposed to be your only one,” I whispered. “But you handed those words out like candy.”
The roses still sit in the vase, their petals wilting, their beauty fading into something grotesque. They were supposed to remind me of love. Instead, they remind me that love can be a lie dressed in red.
Final Thought
Roses are meant to symbolize devotion, passion, and truth. But the ones he sent me were already tainted, already promised to someone else first. Flowers fade, but betrayal lingers. And no matter how sweet they smell, I’ll never look at roses the same way again.
