Rapping on the handle, I lean back and stare out the window, wiping the fogged window with the back of my right hand. Shivering at the coldness of the water drops, I sigh, returning my sight to the road, for the fiftieth time.
It was a peculiar day of snow, and this unexpected event had caused the road to be packed with cars. I shiver at the cold burning into my bones. The heater had broken recently, and was not yet fixed.
I tug on my black coat, thankful for the weight on my shoulders. I push forward into the accel when the long line finally starts moving, and spot a thin road leading off the main road I was on. After a moment of thought, I switch on the blinker and snake off the bustling road. In a few minutes of driving, the road stops, instead replaced by a field of snow. With no particular reason, I park the car and get out, the cold biting the edge of my ears, and walk into the snow, praying that my boots are waterproof. A few steps out in the snow, I feel something under my soles, and raise my boots, surprised. There, I find a crumpled crocus, purple, and I feel my throat tighten.
I had already known that you would leave me in a few months. I had made up my mind, I had told myself over and over that I would bear it, because I knew that our love was mutual, together or not. But I hadn’t known then how miserable and cold it was, without you next to me. I hadn’t known how frightening it was to wake up and find myself alone in an over-sized bed. I hadn’t known anything.
Squatting in front of the beautiful crocus, I think of a million possibilities.
If you hadn’t become ill.
If there was a cure for your illness.
If you had lived.
If I hadn’t loved you.
Would I have been so miserable and so cold?
Floral language of a purple crocus: “Regret for love”
Learn more about the contest which inspired this story: Fleur 2020-01 – Crocus