Roses are red, violet are blue

Chapter 6: The First Crack

The shop was unusually quiet that afternoon. The usual hum of customers and the chatter of the streets seemed distant, muffled by the weight pressing down on Lila's chest. She sat behind the counter, absently running her fingers over a stem of lavender, her mind drifting. The flowers, once a source of solace and meaning, now felt like mere decorations—beautiful, but hollow.

The bell above the door jingled, pulling Lila from her thoughts. She looked up to see Clara, her oldest friend, striding into the shop. Clara had always been a whirlwind of energy, her presence commanding and full of life. Today was no different. She carried a bag of pastries in one hand and her coat slung over her arm.

"Lila," Clara called out, her voice bright but tinged with concern. "I brought you your favorite—almond croissants. Thought you could use a pick-me-up."

Lila managed a weak smile. "Thanks, Clara," she said, though her voice lacked enthusiasm.

Clara placed the bag on the counter and leaned against it, her sharp eyes studying Lila's face. "Alright, what's going on?" she asked, cutting straight to the point as always.

"Nothing," Lila replied quickly, too quickly. She averted her gaze, focusing on the lavender in her hands.

"Don't give me that," Clara said, her tone firm but not unkind. "You've been like this for months—quiet, withdrawn. It's like you're here, but you're not really here. Talk to me, Lila."

Lila's chest tightened. She didn't want to talk, not now, not ever. But Clara wasn't the kind of person to let things go.

"I'm fine," Lila said again, her voice sharper this time.

Clara raised an eyebrow, unperturbed. "You're not fine," she said. "And it's okay not to be fine. But you can't keep shutting everyone out. You're barely living, Lila. You're just… existing."

The words hit like a punch to the gut. Lila's grip on the lavender tightened, the stem bending under the pressure.

"You don't understand," she said, her voice low but trembling.

"Then help me understand," Clara urged, stepping closer. "I'm here, Lila. I've always been here. But I can't help you if you won't let me in."

The crack that had been forming inside Lila for months suddenly felt like it was splitting wide open. The rawness, the vulnerability—it was too much.

"I don't need your help!" she snapped, her voice rising. "I don't need anyone's help! Do you think I don't know what I've become? Do you think I don't feel it every single day? I'm doing the best I can, Clara!"

Clara stepped back, stunned by the outburst. But she didn't retreat entirely. Instead, she softened, her expression a mixture of hurt and compassion.

"I'm not saying you're not trying," she said quietly. "But you're carrying all of this alone, Lila. You don't have to."

Lila shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. "What do you want me to say, Clara? That I miss him? That I don't know how to live without him? That every time I touch a flower, I think of the ones at his funeral? What good would it do to say any of that? It won't bring him back!"

The words tumbled out in a torrent, each one breaking her a little more. By the time she finished, her hands were trembling, and her vision blurred with tears.

Clara took a hesitant step forward. "Lila…" she began, but Lila shook her head.

"Just go," Lila whispered, her voice cracking. "Please, just go."

For a moment, Clara hesitated, her hand hovering as if she wanted to reach out. But the look in Lila's eyes stopped her. With a heavy sigh, she nodded and turned to leave.

The sound of the door closing behind Clara was deafening in the silence that followed. Lila stood there for a moment, frozen, before the first sob broke free. It was a sound she didn't recognize, raw and guttural, pulled from the deepest part of her pain.

She sank to the floor behind the counter, her shoulders shaking as the tears came in waves. Months of suppressed grief poured out of her, unstoppable and uncontrollable. She cried for James, for the life they had planned together, for the emptiness that had taken his place.

The flowers around her seemed to blur into a sea of color, their beauty mocking her sorrow. She reached out and grabbed a rose from the counter, its thorns pricking her fingers. The sharp sting grounded her, pulling her back to the present.

As the sobs subsided, Lila sat there, her head resting against the counter, the rose still clutched in her hand. The silence felt heavy, but not empty. For the first time in months, she felt like she could breathe again, even if the air was laced with pain.

Clara's words echoed in her mind: You're just existing. Lila hated how true they were. She had been going through the motions, using the shop as a shield against her grief. But the shield had cracked, and now she was left to face the raw, unfiltered reality of her loss.

As the evening light filtered through the shop windows, painting the walls in soft hues of gold and pink, Lila found herself looking at the flowers differently. They weren't just decorations or tools of her trade. They were reminders of life's fleeting beauty, of love and loss, of everything that made life worth living—and mourning.

She thought of Clara, of the way her friend had refused to give up on her, even when Lila had pushed her away. She thought of James, of the way he had always encouraged her to find joy in the little things, even in the midst of hardship.

Lila didn't have all the answers, and she didn't know how to move forward. But for the first time, she felt a flicker of something she hadn't felt in a long time: hope. It was fragile, barely there, but it was enough to make her want to try.

Wiping her tears, Lila stood and placed the rose back on the counter. The petals were slightly bruised, but they were still beautiful. She took a deep breath and began tidying the shop, her movements slow but purposeful.

Tomorrow was a new day, and for the first time in months, Lila found herself wanting to see it.