Whispers of Petals, Oranges, and Scars

I’m sorry. 

You know, I go to the grocery store and buy oranges, the sweet fruit that always scented your air. I go to the grocery store and buy the oranges, just to come home and place it on the table, the texture catching the glare of the light. I always keep one on my desk as a reminder of you. 

But lately I've been going to the florist too. I pick out tulips, delicate and beautiful as you are. I bring them home, feeling nothing when the florist flirts with me. I want you. 

I gently take the flowers and cut their stems, quietly snipping the thorns. In another world, I wouldn’t want them to hurt you. I lay them in the water, a crystal vase. I lean back against the counter, a smile coming to my lips as I remember our conversion. It was after homecoming. 

“I swear I’m gonna buy you flowers next time.” 

“Really? Which ones?” you asked.

“Tulips. Pink tulips. But how would you take them home? I don’t want you to kill them.”

You gave me an incredulous stare. “The flowers are already dead.”

“Really? Are you sure?”

“Yes. The roots are gone. Of course they’re dead.”

“Then why do you put them in water?”

“So they don’t shrivel! I’m glad you’re not a science major,” your voice trailing off.

I never got a chance to give you those tulips. So now I bring them home for you. 

I still have that stuffed animal you gave me. Remember Brunch? The cute little dog squish-mallow you got me for my birthday? It was the perfect addition to my collection of stuffed animals, Munch and the one you named, Crunch. Now that I think about it, you completed the family—in more ways than one. They still sit on my shelf, a little worn but always there. Sometimes, I pick him up, wondering if you even knew how much I missed you. Other times I sleep with it, hugging it tight at night, wishing it was you.

Last week I went back to our high school. The then cramped halls, filled with students, now seemed so empty and barren. The harsh lights then now seemed so comforting. I go to our spot, but not the one where we’d have lunch together every day. The one where you told me about your struggle. I remember the long marks. Gray on the edges and white in the middle, such deep, dark scar tissue, a cut now wouldn’t even draw blood.

Telling me was your last plea. Please, be there for me, help me. 

But I walked away that day. I told myself I can’t help her. I’m bad for her. We’re not going to last either way no matter what, her parents will next accept me. Why dig ourselves deeper into this hole? She needs help and I can’t give that to her. She’s better off without me. She can heal without me. I stay, it’ll hurt her more when I leave eventually. 

It’s better off this way. 

After that, I’d see your dead eyes every day. I’d see the way the marks would grow longer and the way you’d take a different way to class, avoiding me. I’d grow to hate myself more and more. But eventually, I saw the way you started to wear shorter sleeved shirts again, as spring came around. I’d see your smile peak through once more. And that made me hate myself a little less. Maybe I was right? I always wished there was another way though, and that question will always haunt me.

But I never stopped caring about you. Not for a moment. I told myself I was doing the right thing, distancing myself for your sake. But now I realize it was a mistake.

I thought I was protecting you. I thought walking away would hurt less in the long run. That you’d heal faster if I wasn’t there to keep opening the wound. But the truth is, it broke me too. I told myself that you’d get better faster without me weighing you down. 

You were perfect. I wish I could have told you that more often. I still remember the look in your eyes when you started to pull away, the way I convinced myself that you’d be okay without me. I hate myself for it every moment of every day. For not being there when you needed me the most.

I regret it all. The way I left. The mess I left you with. How I didn’t have the strength to stay, even when I knew you were struggling. You’ll never believe me, and maybe I don’t deserve for you to. But I’ve never cared about anyone the way I cared about you.

I carry you with me, even now. I see little reminders of you everywhere. Sometimes it’s the smallest things—the faint smell of oranges, the way the light catches on wind chimes. Sometimes it’s bigger. Yesterday, I went to an adoption agency. There was a girl there, her name was Aisha. She had this spark, this light in her eyes. It reminded me of you, of who you were before the world made us both so tired.

I wish I could go back and rewrite it all. I’d do so much differently. 

You were my first and I wanted you to be my last. But I can’t change that. The tulips on my table are still for you, even now. The oranges are still for the sweetness you brought into my life. And when I see someone like Aisha, with that light in her eyes, I think of who you were before I let you down. I think of the mornings we could’ve had, the love we could’ve built.

Maybe this letter doesn’t change anything, and maybe it’s coming too late. But I needed you to know: I never stopped caring. And I’ll keep loving you in the quiet ways—the oranges, the tulips, the memories—because that’s all I have left of us.

I really did love you, I’m sorry.