Every year, on the same day, a bouquet would arrive—no note, no name. Just flowers from someone I barely remembered from high school. For 20 years, they came without fail. Until this year.
That silence at my doorstep was louder than anything. It sparked a question I could no longer ignore: Why did they stop?
As I sat with Ethan—sweet, polite, but not the one—I confessed the truth. The mysterious annual gift. He laughed it off, but when no flowers came that night, something inside me shifted.
One clue from last year—a rare call from the courier—led me to an address. I followed it, heart pounding, Ethan unknowingly tagging along. When we reached the house, I saw him: Caleb. Quiet, kind Caleb from school.
“Yes, it was me,” he admitted. “I thought maybe it was time to let go.”
But it wasn’t.
“I waited every year,” I said.
And finally, we didn’t need flowers to say what needed to be said.
“Out loud this time,” I told him.
And kissed him.
Love, twenty years in bloom.
