The petal snaps the moment I touch it. It’s been leached dry by the tears that have carved a permanent path on my cheeks. My hands reach out like they’re possessed, grasping at the whorls of pale orange, once a brilliant red. The pieces waft in the air, falling too slowly, brushing my palms as I grind them into the wooden floor, shoe in hand. My hands move faster, and I let out a cry of every emotion I’ve held back since you left. 

I don’t think I will clean this up. 

2 years ago 

You show up on my doorstep, a single red rose in your hand. “This is for you,” you say, eyes alight with hope. 

“That’s a pretty rose.” 

“Mind if I put it in your hair?” 

“What if the rose pricks me?” 

“It’ll never happen. Don’t worry about it.” You smirk. “There’s a movie I want to watch tonight. I would love for you to come with me.” 

I like your confidence, so I say yes. 

1 year and 11 months ago 

The restaurant fills with the tinkling of wine glasses and a trickling guitar melody. I twirl my fork in a plate of pasta. You chuckle at my child-like glee. I wish I could capture this moment, the two of us immortalized in the flickering of candlelight. 

The night blurs, ending with a dance floor and your hand on my waist. 

“I didn’t know you could dance,” you say. 

“I didn’t know I could either. I guess instinct is a powerful thing.” We waltz through the throng, steps smooth as if we’ve practiced for eons together. 

I stumble in my heels, hands finding the floor. I told you I didn’t like wearing heels but I wore them for you. You raised your eyebrows and smiled with a hint of awkwardness. Now, there’s still a trace of tension in the edges of your face as you look at me with concern, then relief as I start giggling, face aflame with blush. You help me up and we leave the restaurant, half stumbling with mirth, half running into the crisp night air. 

We don’t know it yet, but I’ve fallen, and you have, too. 

1½ years ago 

Why does fate hate us? I squeeze your hand so hard it turns white. A doctor in white says stage four cancer and a few months left. I can’t fall apart, but someone’s crushed the pale petals of my heart into dust. 

1 year ago 

I can’t bear to see you on death’s doorstep, the ventilator on your face, a cursed testament to the fragility of our species.

Somewhere in between the first dance and last kiss, we forgot we were mortal. One second we’re alone, one second we aren't. White and blue coats. I’m drowning, the sound muffled as the frantic yelling continues for minutes—days—eons— and finally, a single note of finality. Flatline. The voices fall silent. One of them calls out, time of death, 4 o’clock. Quietly, they shuffle out, leaving me with nothing but a shattered future and a thorn in my heart. 

Present 

The calendar marks the first anniversary of your death. 

The price I paid for love was grief. 

Grief is such a funny thing, isn’t it? In my mind, I’ve pulled up a chair for it to sit at the table of my consciousness. “I’m here to stay,” it says, “so move over and leave some room for me.” And for the past year, the room it has taken up hasn’t diminished. I still see you in the halls, your favorite hoodie, your favorite spot in the meadow. 

Somehow, time has passed. The first month, my friends had to remind me how to smile. The second month, I remembered what I looked like: a disheveled girl with eyebags the size of moons. The sixth month, I could walk past your bedroom without dissolving. The ninth, I could look at your—our—pictures again. Grief has pulled up a chair to the table, but now there are more seats than ever. Yes, it still takes up the same room, but other things have grown around it. Slowly, I think, the smiles are chasing the tears away. 

The sunlight streams through the windows, casting a golden glow on the mess of petals. You would want me to move on. You were always selfless like that. I grab the end of the broom, sweeping the last memories of you away. Maybe today is the day I finally let go. I stare. I stare. And I stare. 

The doorbell rings. I move to open it. 

“This is for you.” A young lover waits outside, holding a single red rose. “I was wondering if you would go watch a movie with me tonight. I would love for you to come.” For a heartbeat, I see you in his words, his smile, the same rose in his hands. 

I waver. 

The scent brings me back to a time when our laughter filled the sky. My hands tremble as I continue the conversation. 

“That’s a pretty rose.” 

“Mind if I put it in your hair?” 

“What if the rose pricks me?” 

“I already pruned the thorns. It can’t hurt you anymore.” He smiles. 

I look into his eyes. In them, I glimpse promises of laughter. 

This time will be different. 

I say yes.