Chapter 8: The Language of Flowers
335 Words
The soft chime of Emilia’s phone interrupted her lecture preparation. She glanced at the screen, expecting an email or a message from a student, but instead, her assistant peeked in through the door, holding a small bouquet.
“These just arrived for you,” the assistant said with a teasing smile before setting them on her desk.
Emilia’s brow furrowed as she carefully unwrapped the paper. White camellias.
Her breath hitched. The petals were soft and delicate, their creamy hue glowing in the afternoon light. White camellias—the symbol of longing.
No note. No signature.
But she didn’t need one.
Her fingers brushed against the smooth stems as memories surfaced—Luca had once told her that flowers could say what words couldn’t. She had laughed at the idea back then, but now, staring at the bouquet, she wasn’t laughing.
That evening, she found herself standing outside Luca’s apartment, the bouquet still in her hands.
“Flowers?” she asked as he opened the door, raising an eyebrow.
Luca leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. A small smirk played on his lips. “You always told me flowers spoke a language of their own.”
She scoffed, stepping closer. “And what exactly are you trying to say?”
His expression softened. “That I regret everything.” His voice was quieter now. “And that I miss you.”
Emilia’s heart clenched, but she forced herself to stay composed. “You can’t just send flowers and expect the past to disappear, Luca.”
“I know.” His gaze never wavered. “But I also know actions matter more than words. So let me take you somewhere tomorrow. No expectations. Just a day.”
She hesitated, searching his face for any sign of deception. Instead, she found only quiet determination.
After a long pause, she exhaled. “Fine. One day.”
Luca smiled, and for the first time in years, Emilia felt something stir in her chest—something dangerously close to hope.
- Writer
