SWNOVELXO Chapter 8: Chapter 8: Petals of the Past
Chapter 8: Petals of the Past
The morning sun filtered through the glass panels of The Petal Whisperer, casting a golden glow over the myriad of blooms that lined the shelves. Lila stood at her workbench, her hands deftly arranging lilies, peonies, and eucalyptus leaves into an intricate bouquet. It was for a wedding client—a young bride who had stopped by earlier with stars in her eyes and dreams spilling from her lips. Lila had listened as the bride described the theme of her wedding, the colors, and the love story that had brought her and her fiancé to this moment.
But as Lila tied the satin ribbon around the stems, her fingers faltered. The familiar pang of grief surged through her chest, sharp and unyielding. She had imagined this moment countless times before, but in a different context—her own wedding. Her mind wandered, unbidden, to James.
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James had always been the one with big dreams. "We'll have the most beautiful wedding," he had said one evening as they sat on her couch, sipping wine. "You'll walk down the aisle surrounded by roses—red ones, of course. And violets for good measure. It'll be perfect."
She had laughed, brushing him off at the time. "You're such a romantic, James. But isn't that a little cliché?"
"Maybe," he'd said with a shrug, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "But clichés exist for a reason, don't they?"
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The memory was so vivid it felt like he was standing right beside her. She could almost hear his voice, warm and teasing. But then the weight of reality came crashing back, and her hands stilled completely. The bouquet she was working on blurred as tears welled in her eyes.
Lila stepped away from the bench, needing a moment to breathe. She walked to the back room and leaned against the cool wall, pressing her palms to her face.
"This isn't fair," she whispered to no one in particular.
It had been two years since James's death, but the ache of his absence felt as fresh as the day she had lost him. Her grief had become a shadow, always present, always lingering. She had buried herself in her work, in the rhythmic comfort of arranging flowers, hoping it would dull the pain. But moments like this reminded her that grief wasn't something you could escape.
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Later that evening, after closing the shop, Lila found herself drawn to her small desk in the corner of her apartment. The bouquet had been delivered, and the bride's excitement had been infectious enough to lift her spirits momentarily. But as the night deepened, the quiet settled in, bringing her thoughts back to James.
She pulled open the bottom drawer of her desk and retrieved a faded shoebox. Inside were remnants of their life together: photographs, ticket stubs from their first movie date, the menu from the restaurant where he had proposed. At the very bottom lay a blank notebook, its pages untouched.
Lila hesitated for a moment before opening the notebook. She stared at the empty page, her pen hovering above it. Writing had never been her outlet, but tonight, the need to express the unspoken was overwhelming.
"Dear James," she wrote, the words feeling foreign yet strangely comforting.
She paused, unsure of how to continue. But then the floodgates opened, and the words poured out.
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"I miss you," she wrote, her hand trembling slightly. "Every single day, I miss you. It feels like the world has moved on, but I'm still here, stuck in the past, reliving every moment we shared. The way you laughed, the way you held my hand, the way you believed in me even when I didn't believe in myself."
Tears blurred her vision, but she kept writing.
"I'm sorry for all the times I brushed you off, for all the times I didn't say 'I love you' enough. If I had known how little time we had, I would have done everything differently. I would have held on tighter, kissed you longer, cherished every second."
Her pen stilled, and she took a deep breath. The silence of the room was deafening, but it also felt like a cocoon, wrapping her in its embrace.
"I don't know if you can hear me, wherever you are," she continued. "But I hope you know that I'm trying. I'm trying to live, to find joy again, even if it feels impossible most days. You would have wanted that, wouldn't you?"
She thought back to the times James had encouraged her to chase her dreams, to open the flower shop despite her doubts. He had always been her biggest supporter, her anchor in the storm.
"You believed in me when I couldn't see my own strength," she wrote. "And maybe… maybe it's time I start believing in myself too. Not just for me, but for you."
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When she finally set the pen down, the notebook felt heavier in her hands, as if it carried the weight of her emotions. Lila stared at the words she had written, raw and unfiltered, and felt a strange sense of relief.
She didn't know what to do with the letter. Should she keep it? Burn it? Leave it at his grave? The answer didn't matter right now. What mattered was that she had taken a step—a small, tentative step toward confronting her grief.
As she closed the notebook and returned it to the shoebox, Lila noticed something she hadn't felt in a long time: a flicker of hope. It was faint, barely there, but it was enough to remind her that healing wasn't a destination. It was a journey, one she was finally ready to embark on.
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That night, as she lay in bed, Lila thought about the bride who would soon be walking down the aisle, beginning a new chapter of her life. And she thought about James, whose chapter had ended far too soon.
But maybe, she realized, her own story wasn't over yet. There were still pages to be written, moments to be lived, and love to be found—in all its forms.
And as she drifted off to sleep, the words she had written echoed in her mind: "I'm trying."
It was a promise to herself, and to James, that she would keep moving forward, one petal at a time.