Fiction Sad Romance

Her. He couldn’t remember much about her. What he could remember was…

A daisy.

He gave her a daisy that day. She was crying on the kindergarten swing, her father had forgotten to pick her up again. Too busy, he recalls. Her face were wet with tears by the time she noticed him handing her a daisy. Eyes wide staring at the embarrassed boy. Delicate hands received the delicate offer of friendship. She smiled at him and he remembers it being the warmest glow he had ever seen. Far brighter than the ripened sun behind them.

Little does he know.

A sunflower.

She wore a sunflower hairpin on their first day of elementary. He remembers how perfectly it suited her ebony hair, how it matched with the canary yellow dress she chose to impress their new friends with that day. He remembers how the flower would sometimes slide down because her hair was too straight. He remembers her clumsy hand readjusting the stubborn accessory. She put it up, it went down. Up and down. Up and down. Like the sun on a midnight sky. Like the beating of his chest.

Little does he know.

Marigolds. Lots of marigolds.

They were the reason for him falling off his brand new bike and he in turn turned into a reason for her to laugh. Marigolds dancing, twirling on her scrunchie, holding back her then overgrown hair. Those little yellow flowers patterned the velvet hair tie, which had distracted him from their first bike lesson.

“Better luck next time,” she laughed sweetly, walking her bike forward.

He remembers how the marigolds slipped down to the end of her hair, dangling on each strand, threatening to fall onto the road. Like how his heart had been dangling on a string when he heard her ringing laugh. Dangling. Dazzling. He stared at it for awhile. Forgetting to follow her.

Little does he know.

White camellias.

Her mother had bought a light blue dress with white camellia pattern for her when the age of 11 was around the corner.

“Why don’t you give it a spin?” her mother suggested.

How she twirled. He remembers how all the camellias and the blue hue blended together, creating this image of white clouds amidst azure sky. For a second, the camellias were all that he could see.

He remembers how careful she was, not wanting to stain the perfectly white flowers. Through their walk along the neighborhood, she kept her arms close to her hip so that the dress wouldn't get caught on some random hook. He couldn’t remember whether the dirt got their hands on the camellias or not, but he remembers they grew in his dreams that night.

Little does he know.

An amaryllis.

She was crouching next to an amaryllis, caressing its petals. The striking red, after so many years, still ingrains in his mind. The way it blossomed and refused to let anything deter it from expressing its beauty. He remembers her seeing him and quickly smudged the crimson blood close to her lip away.

“What was that on your lip?”

“What do you mean?” she asked innocently.

“Did Sam do anything to you? Did he hurt you?” an aggressive tone.

“No, it’s nothing. I just fell and cut my lip. That’s all.” she flashed her sunrise smile at him. “What are you doing here?”

“To wish you a happy 16th birthday, of course.”

“Oh, thank you. You’re too sweet.”

Little does he know.

A rose.

A rose corsage was what she wore on her wrist on their senior prom. Head resting on a chest. Not his chest. Sam’s chest. He remembers how even when the room was dark and full of people dancing, he could still spot the pink rose gleaming in the distance, mocking him. He stared at them across the room. He remembers the odor of countless people stuffed into one gym, remembers the tasteless drinks they served, remembers the nauseated feel in his stomach, remembers his fake smile and his jealous heart. He remembers her whispering something to Sam, remembers how perfectly they looked holding each other. He was an outsider. He remembers the swaying rose. Everything else was spinning, but the rose, it remained still. He went outside and pulled out a cigarette, suffocating himself, trying to push his mind further away from the red rose corsage he hid in his pocket.

Little does he know.

Blue hydrangeas.

Something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue. The family passed-down necklace draped across her neck. Her new heels clicked with every step. His arm she borrowed to walk her down the aisle while she held a bouquet of blue hydrangeas. Her father wasn’t there, like he had been for most of her life. She was gorgeous, her hair decorated with floral accessories, tied neatly into a bun. A veil concealed her shy face. How he had wished that it had been him to lift that veil, to show her the man she would have been with. But all he could do was gave her his best wishes.

That night, he drank until his heart burned out. The blue bouquet flashed before him. It was all he focused on during the wedding, or else he would have to look at her, look at her happy face. He couldn’t bear it. How blue the hydrangeas were. How blue he was.

Little does he know.

A carnation.

He suggested that her son buy a carnation for Mother’s Day. He remembers the kid’s sparkling eyes. He remembers her smile when she received the flower, how Sam appeared from behind the door and hugged them both. What a perfect family. He could have created that with her, too. He could have. The carnation stayed in his view. His eyes refuse to, even a glance, look at the family that she had. The flower was squished between hugs, kisses, and thank- you’s. His heart clenched. He had to get away. Motherhood suited her, he thought, as he said goodbye.

Little does he know.


In all black, he held the chrysanthemums in his hands, watched as she cried and wailed in front of the coffin. Sam’s coffin. She was screaming then. He rushed towards her, petals gently fell as the bouquet dropped. She leaned into him, tears blotching the side of his sleeve. He kissed her hair and held her tight. It was just like before once again. She would cry and he would be there. Always.

In the distance, the chrysanthemums were crushed by hurried footsteps.

Little does he know.

A daffodil.

A daffodil was placed as a centerpiece on the white cloth covered table. People were dining and talking, the singer was singing, and the waiter was asking him what he would like to order. He was waiting for a friend, he said. But that friend never came. She never came. The sky got darker, the people fewer, and all the while, the daffodil stared at him. It perched upon its glass vase and stared at him. He sighed.

“Why didn’t you come today?” he placed his head on her door.

Only silence echoed back.

He placed the daffodil on the porch.

Little does he know.

A white lily.

A white lily was all he brought. He had not want to come. But he still went. He fear he would turn mad if he ever saw it. He tried to be brave, to be strong. 48 years of life had taught him how to be strong. But when nothing but a dead body laid before him, his knees dropped, dirt stained the white petals. That was not her. She was suppose to be full of color and life. That was not her. He was a weak man. He gave in. His unconscious body crushed the lily.

Little does he know.


He says, giving the flower to her son. He’s now old, 76 years too old. How he managed to live when she was gone, he may never know. This is the end for him. Her son cries. Like every time before that, he chooses not to look at her son’s miserable face. Instead, he turns his attention to the petite flower. He caresses it with his weak fingers. He thinks of her. Her. Sunlight flows in and his soul follows the ray.

Little does he know.

Little did he know, he had always been looking at her through rose-tinted glasses. 


She was angry that day. Her father hadn’t come to take her home. She watched as her classmates held their father’s hand, singing happy songs. She was angry. She ran towards one of the girls and tear her daisy crown to shred. I hate you, she said. She ran crying to the swing.

“She stole it from me!” a girl pointed at her.

“I didn’t,” she said.

“You did.”

“I did not.”

The screams went on and on until the girl’s mother apologized and scolded her daughter for accusing her.

Alone in her room at last, she checked the hairpin. The neighbor’s sunflower hairpin. It was so beautiful. It was the girl’s fault for not keeping a closer eye on it. It wasn’t her fault that she had wanted to keep it for herself. Everyone at her new school was going to be so jealous.

“It’s my turn to ride the bike,” her little sister said, about to cry.

She rolled her eyes. “You ride it all the time. Let me ride it.”

“No, this bike is mine. This is so unfair!”

“No, it’s mine. Now shut up, I’m late. He’s waiting for me.”

“Then ask him for a ride then.” her sister burst into tears, voice sounded nonsensical.

“I can’t. Go inside or I’ll tell mom you broke the vase.”

“YOU broke the vase!”

She rode off. Annoying little sister.

She met him at their usual spot. He with his new shining bike. Why did he want to be her friend, anyway. She wished that he would fall.

The dress was so pretty. The white camellias added so much detail to the dress. She had to get it. All her friends had new dresses on their 11th birthday so why couldn’t she.

“I’m sorry honey, but mommy is a little tight right now. Maybe I’ll buy it for you next year?”

“No, I want it now!”


“If you don’t buy it for me, I’m leaving the house.”

Her mother sighed and bought her the dress. She must be careful not to get it dirty. She noticed the way others looked at her. Looked at her worn out shoes, her second-hand clothes, her cheap plastic accessories. This dress was the most beautiful thing she owned.

Sam was another thing she wanted to possess. He was perfect in her eyes. She loved him. But he loved traveling more. She threatened him, guilted him into staying with her. She told him if he left, she would hurt herself. And hurt herself she did. It was only a cut but it was enough to scare Sam.

She smiled contently, admiring the amaryllis. Red like her blood, like the scars she held, red like the passion she had.

“I’m pregnant.”

The room was hot, the lights low, but they were bright enough to see Sam’s reaction. Purple and dark blue contoured his face, making it soft, like the moon. Her moon. Sam was speechless. They still swayed with the music, her head resting on his chest. The pink rose boutonniere tickled her cheek. It looked good on Sam.

Her wedding day had finally arrived. It was expensive and she did go over budget but that was a problem she chose to ignore, her sister and mother were going to pay for it anyway. Her father didn't come. But it didn't matter, it didn't matter. Her white dress fitted her perfectly, the veil added such mystery to her. Fresh blue hydrangeas came just as she had ordered them. Bloom bright and big, like her future would be with the man of her dreams.

As she exchanged vows with him, she could feel the swollen bump. She noticed that Sam only paid attention to it, not her. He even forgot to say “I do”. She gripped the bouquet.

She hated the baby. Hated the way he wailed and cried, like her sister had done. She hated the way he wouldn’t let her sleep at night, hated the way he demanded so much from her. She pinched him hard if he cried, smacked him if he disobeyed. The crying lessened once he was grown but her mean streak didn’t. She criticized him for every little thing, he couldn’t seem to do anything right. She had to resort to locking him up in the closet once when he wouldn't eat the vegetables. Annoying brat.

On Mother’s Day he gave her a carnation. Flowers. How useless. But she put up an act, her friend was there, staring at her like a surveillance camera. She threw away the flower that night.

Sam killed himself. She looked in horror at his dangling body. Lost for words. No words could express the agony she was feeling. Useless comfortings, pathetic sorries soon followed. She didn’t need those, she needed Sam.

“Don’t cry like that. You know you killed him,” her sister said with a cold tone.


“You killed him the day you took away his future. You roped him into marrying you, trapped him in this marriage. He had to give up his dreams just for you, for his son,” her sister spitted out.

“Just shut up! You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You never change, do you? You're just a selfish monster who couldn’t care less about anybody else but yourself. YOU killed Sam.”

She woke up. It was 10 p.m. already. Lately, she hadn’t been feeling very well. She ate and slept, ate and slept. Maybe watched some television. And some crying, too. Silence wrapped around the room, only the ticking of the clock kept her company. She looked at it again. Wasn’t she suppose to meet him at the restaurant? Never mind. She slept some more.

And it was in her sleep that she withered away and left this world. She never got to say goodbye to her son or her sister. But they wouldn’t care whether she lived or not, would they? No, they hated her. It would be better if she was gone. No one would miss her anyway.

Little did she know, someone did miss her.

Little did she know, someone brought a white lily for her.

Little did she know, someone still thinks of her until his last dying breath.

March 22, 2021 13:41

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Elliot G
01:02 Mar 29, 2021

Very interesting story! I love the way you used this prompt and the twist near the end when we heard her side of the story was shocking (in a good, way of course:)! Keep up the good work!


K. L.
10:54 Mar 29, 2021

Thanks for the encouragement! I'm really happy that you found my story interesting, it means a lot. Thank you!


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Karen Mc Dermott
13:13 Mar 28, 2021

A breath-taking story. I was riveted throughout. Hands down one of the best I've ever read on this site.


K. L.
10:49 Mar 29, 2021

Thank you so much! I'm so glad you enjoyed it.


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