My phone buzzed just as I turned away from the window, the stars still clinging to my thoughts like dust.
Boss [7:03 PM]: "The guy who bought your bouquet today wants to meet you."
I blinked. Reread it. Again.
The guy...?
Why would someone like him want to meet someone like me?
I started typing: "Why?" Then erased it.
Instead, I typed back: "When?"
Boss [7:04 PM]: "Now. He's outside."
I felt a flutter in my chest. Not quite panic. Not quite excitement — something in between — like the feeling before rain.
I smoothed my hair. Touched my lips without realizing. Why was I suddenly acting like I was in a romance film?
There were dozens of customers today, but only one bouquet I couldn't forget.
Wrapped in ivory paper. Lavender tucked in between red roses. A handwritten message I copied from a scribbled note:
"I'm sorry. Please forgive me." Signed: Daniel.
I stepped outside.
He was standing by the shop's iron gate, hands in pockets, leaning slightly — like he'd been there a while but didn't want to seem that he is eager to meet me.
Messy black hair. Hoodie. Eyes not quite brown — more like... unread pages.
He looked up. Smiled.
"You're Marie, right?"
I blinked. "Yeah. Um... hi."
"You wrote the message," he said.
I tilted my head. "You gave it to us. I just copied it."
"No," I admitted. "I add lavender to apology bouquets sometimes. I think it... softens the message."
"It did." He looked straight at me now. "For a second, I wished I had been saying sorry to you."
My breath hitched.
"I mean," he rushed, "not like that. Just— you made it feel real. And today's been a weird day. So... I guess I just wanted to meet the girl who made my apology better than I deserved."
I smiled, unsure whether to thank him or run away.
We walked slowly toward the little bench outside the shop, the sky behind us a watercolor of lilac and fading sun.
"So... you work here full-time?" he asked.
"No. Part-time. I study, and I... write. Sometimes. Mostly I stare out windows and pretend I'm figuring out my life."
"Sounds relatable," he chuckled. "I write music. Or try to."
"You're a musician?"
"A failed one. But I'm stubborn."
"Stubborn people make good songs."
He looked at me then — really looked — like something about that sentence meant more to him than I intended.
Silence fell for a minute. The soft kind. The kind where no one's rushing to fill it because it doesn't feel empty.
"Can I ask something?" he finally said.
"Sure."
"Do you believe in signs?"
I tilted my head. "Like... cosmic signs?"
"Yeah. Like the universe sends people or moments to nudge you."
"I know it's strange, but... would you want to get coffee sometime?"
"Is this a date or just a universe-led interaction?"
He smirked. "Maybe both?"
"Then yes. But you have to promise to never ghost me with a flower apology."
"Deal," he laughed, holding out his hand.
I shook it, noticing how warm his fingers were against the cool dusk air.
"You know," he added as he turned to leave, "I don't think your job is just selling flowers."
I smiled to myself. "I think... I believe in whispers more than shouts. The universe doesn't always yell. Sometimes it just... sends a bouquet. Or a stranger."
"That's exactly what I thought," he said, voice almost a whisper.
He stood up slowly, brushing imaginary dust off his jeans.
"No?"
"I think you deliver little messages for the sky."
As he walked away, I felt the flicker again.
The one I always got when I looked up at the stars and wondered if they saw me.
But maybe... they weren't just watching anymore. Maybe they had finally started to answer back.