Roses are red, violet are blue

Chapter 9: A Shared Moment

The sun had begun its slow descent, casting a warm amber glow through the windows of The Petal Whisperer. The shop was quiet, the day's customers long gone, and Lila stood at her workbench, finishing the last bouquet of the day. She worked meticulously, her fingers weaving delicate stems of lavender and baby's breath into a soft cascade of blooms. The solitude of the moment felt comforting, a brief reprieve from the noise of her thoughts.

As she placed the final ribbon around the bouquet, the soft jingle of the shop's door startled her. Lila turned, expecting to see someone hurrying in for a last-minute purchase, but it was Elliot.

"Am I too late?" he asked, his voice carrying a mixture of hesitation and apology.

Lila shook her head, offering a faint smile. "No, you're fine. Just wrapping up."

Elliot stepped further into the shop, his presence filling the quiet space. He wasn't carrying his usual air of nervous energy tonight. Instead, he seemed more grounded, his eyes steady as they met hers.

"I didn't mean to interrupt," he said, glancing at the bouquet in her hands. "That's beautiful. Who's it for?"

"Just a customer," Lila replied, placing the bouquet in a water-filled vase. "A gift for someone's anniversary, I think."

Elliot nodded, his expression softening. "Flowers have a way of speaking what words can't, don't they?"

Lila paused, the weight of his words sinking in. She had always believed in the unspoken language of flowers, how each petal and stem could carry a message. But tonight, his observation felt personal, as though he were speaking to something deeper within her.

"Yeah," she said quietly. "They do."

---

The shop fell into a comfortable silence as Elliot wandered over to a display of violets. His fingers brushed lightly against the petals, his touch reverent. Lila watched him from the corner of her eye, curious yet unsure how to bridge the distance between them. There was something about Elliot—his quiet demeanor, the way he seemed to carry an invisible weight—that resonated with her own struggles.

"You come here a lot," Lila said finally, her tone light but probing. "What is it about violets that draws you in?"

Elliot turned to face her, his expression thoughtful. "They remind me of someone," he said simply. "Someone I've been trying to reconnect with."

Lila waited, sensing there was more he wanted to say. She didn't push, letting the silence encourage him instead.

"My sister," Elliot continued after a moment. "We were close growing up, but... life happened. Mistakes were made, words were said, and now there's this distance between us. The violets are for her. They're her favorite flower."

His voice wavered slightly, and Lila could see the vulnerability etched in his features. She felt a pang of empathy, recognizing the pain of broken connections and unspoken regrets.

"That's thoughtful," she said softly. "I'm sure she'll appreciate them."

Elliot gave a small smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I hope so. I don't know if it's enough, but it's a start."

---

As the conversation lingered, Lila found herself drawn to Elliot's openness. It was rare for her to connect with someone on such a personal level, especially since James's death. For so long, she had kept her emotions locked away, afraid to let anyone in. But something about Elliot's honesty felt disarming, like a crack forming in the walls she had built around herself.

Her gaze drifted to the counter, where the letter she had written to James lay folded and untouched. She hadn't planned to leave it out, but in her haste to close up, she'd forgotten to put it away.

Elliot followed her line of sight and noticed the paper. He didn't ask about it, but his expression shifted, curiosity mingling with concern.

"Writing can be cathartic," he said gently. "Sometimes it helps to get things out, even if it's just for yourself."

Lila hesitated, her instinct to deflect warring with the urge to open up. She glanced at the letter, the words she had poured onto the page still fresh in her mind.

"It's a letter," she admitted quietly. "To someone I lost. Someone I loved."

Elliot nodded, his understanding evident in the softness of his gaze. "That's brave of you. Grief is... complicated. But acknowledging it, facing it, that's how you start to heal."

The sincerity in his voice caught her off guard, and for a moment, she felt seen in a way she hadn't in years. Her throat tightened, and she looked away, afraid her emotions might betray her.

---

Elliot stepped closer, his movements careful as though he didn't want to intrude. "You don't have to share if you're not ready," he said. "But just know that it's okay to feel what you're feeling. You don't have to carry it all alone."

His words were simple, yet they carried a weight that resonated deeply. Lila took a shaky breath, her fingers brushing the edge of the letter.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Elliot offered a small smile, one that carried no expectation, only support. He glanced at the violets one last time before turning back to her.

"I should let you close up," he said. "But... if you ever need someone to talk to, I'm around."

Lila nodded, her heart swelling with a mixture of gratitude and something she couldn't quite name. As Elliot headed toward the door, she found herself wanting to say more, to express the flicker of hope he had ignited within her.

"Elliot," she called out just before he stepped outside.

He turned, his expression expectant.

"Thank you," she said again, this time with more conviction. "For being here."

Elliot gave her a final nod, the quiet understanding between them unspoken yet unmistakable.

---

As the door closed behind him, Lila stood in the dimly lit shop, the air heavy with the scent of flowers. She glanced at the letter once more, her fingers brushing its surface. Elliot's words lingered in her mind, a gentle reminder that healing didn't have to be a solitary journey.

For the first time in a long while, Lila allowed herself to feel the full weight of her emotions—not just the grief, but the hope as well. It was a shared moment, brief yet profound, that left her feeling more connected to the world around her.

And as she turned off the lights and locked up for the night, she carried that hope with her, a fragile yet persistent bloom waiting to grow.