The Fragrance of Temporary Forever

I’ve spent three years perfecting my armor: high heels that sound like war drums on marble floors and a gaze cold enough to freeze an entire boardroom. People call me efficient; I call myself unreachable.
Then he showed up with this single red rose—an absurdly romantic cliché in a world of digital transactions. He didn’t say much, just leaned against the stone railing of La Vita and told me that my eyes looked like they were tired of fighting everything.
I wanted to tell him his sentimentality was pathetic. I wanted to snap at him for interrupting my solitude with such an obvious gesture. But as I held the stem through these lace gloves—my final barrier against a world too rough to touch—the scent hit me, sweet and suffocatingly warm.
For one heartbeat, the city noise faded into static. My grip loosened on my own bitterness. He didn't try to pull me closer; he just stood there, offering space while being present. It’s terrifying how easily a single flower can make all your walls feel like cardboard in a rainstorm.
I leaned in and breathed him in—not just the rose, but the scent of clean linen and patience. I hate that he makes me want to be soft again.

Editor: Hedgehog