I didn't mean to draw it.
The flower.
It just… happened.
One moment, I was circling the corner of the page like I always do when my hands need something to do. The next, it was there- thin petals, crooked stem, a little off-centre. Just like hers.
Not a copy. Not even close.
But something in me wanted to match the shape of her silence.
She walked past me this morning and didn't say a word. She didn't have to.
I saw her look down. Saw the pause.
She noticed.
And that scared the hell out of me.
People notice. Then they ask. Then they care. Then they leave.
That's the order.
My mom used to doodle flowers when she was thinking. On napkins, receipts, envelopes. Always half-open petals, like they were trying to bloom but didn't trust the world enough to do it fully.
After she died, I found one of her old journals. The last page was just… ink smears. A flower that never got finished. Like even her drawings gave up.
I never showed it to anyone.
Ginny doesn't know any of this.
She just sits there with her soft lines and open expression like she's not afraid to feel everything all the way through.
That's dangerous. I don't know what to do with people like that.
The thing is- I didn't draw the flower for her.
Not really.
But when she looked at it, and her face changed just a little- It felt like I'd said something out loud.
And I haven't done that in a very, very long time.