Sunflowers have never been my favourite.
You insisted they were the ones I cherished most, and I went along with it—after all, it’s not like my story was ever mine to write.
The golden retriever of the fields, as I call them, if I am allowed to give my two cents.
And thus, I received a big bouquet of them, soft, yellow petals unfurled in a beautiful symmetry, shimmering in a faint glow as if summer itself decided to rest within its heart.
My lover looked at me, with a small smile, waiting to catch a glimpse of my reaction.
“Thank you so much, these are absolutely breathtaking.”
“Oh, it was nothing—only the best for the prettiest person I know.”
I tucked the bunch into my left hand, and clasped my right hand gently into my lover’s.
My hand warmed up in the familiarity of the touch.
We spent the rest of the day in a comfortable rhythm—talking, grabbing something to eat, walking around. It was fine, pleasant enough, like ticking a box on a list I didn’t remember writing.
At the end of the date an unexpected question popped up.
“Will you marry me?”
.
.
.
I hadn't answered right away. I remember blinking slowly, as if the question had unsettled the air around me.
The sunflowers were still in my hand, drooping just slightly from the weight of time and meaning. My lover stood there, expectant but trying to look casual, as if the question had been tossed out lightly—like asking what we should eat for dinner, like it wasn’t a fork in the road of two entire lives.
I knew what the correct answer was.
The result had been predestined.
The kind of decision that looks right in photographs.
But I was ultimately walking down a path someone else had sketched on paper.
And within that path, there was no point of return.
So I said yes.
I let the moment pass, like sunlight on glass—fleeting, beautiful, but not mine.
.
.
.
My lover dropped me off as the sun was setting.
I stepped out of the car and watched the fading light stretching across the pavement, the golden hue now a mosaic of light reds and oranges.
These days I've come to appreciate evenings a little more than before.
Fall evenings, to be precise.
I often find myself sitting on the staircase, back leaning against the wall, legs stretched out as far as they can, cherry picking the fuzz out of an old sweater that has probably long passed its due date.
It's a wonder to see that despite its long years of being in use, I can still revel in the softness it came with.
Sometimes I'll turn on the radio for some mellow music if I find the silence getting too loud for my bearing. I'll make myself some tea to sip on while I bask in the short lived peace that these evenings provide.
The stairs overlook the multiple glass windows that allow the evening sun to filter through and light up my usual dimly lit house. Usually I cover them up with big, navy blue curtains but recently I've been enjoying setting the curtains aside for a while. The remaining sunlight hits parts of me and I savor the warmth and tenderness in the time I can afford to. From the corner of my eye, maybe I'll get a glimpse of a gleam illuminating fragments of these windows. My house looks quite beautiful and the whole scene is rather delightful to witness if I say so myself.
In those stolen moments, I am alive.
And with that confession, this is my last letter to you.
The opening to my story never began with sunflowers, it had always been poppies.
You spoke of your love for the red poppies in the author’s note—how you had planted them in memory of a love once held dear, their bright red hue a quiet echo of the years passed.
The same red poppies blooming in your little garden—the ones you tended with an ardent devotion. So often, I’d find you there, nestled among them, pen in hand, crafting chapters with a muted fury one might not easily catch. You’d scribble onto sheets of ivory, ink flowing like breath, as if the world might catch fire if you chose to pause.
I would watch your little frown against the backdrop of the poppies, wrapped in a quiet passion, that I could only dream to achieve.
And when you finally paused, you’d lift your gaze to the red poppies swaying gently around you, and a soft smile would find your lips—as if, in that fleeting moment, nothing else existed but you, your blooming garden, and the quiet world of dreams you had so lovingly created.
Seeing you smile, my world did burn.
It continued to crash and burn with every stroke of your letters, until now.
I am not alive in your world, as my story has now finished.
However, this letter is my last attempt to share my truth.
Poppies have always been my favourite.
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