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[Y/N]'s POV:
I'm going to be completely honest here and wholeheartedly admit to you guys that I fucking hate receiving a bouquet of flowers as a gift; I don't care who it's from, partner or friend, mother or acquaintance, nor do I care what kind it is; roses, hyacinths, daisies, violets, peonies, or an amalgamation of all of them—I despise them all with a burning passion hotter than hell itself. I don't have a particular reason for hating them as much as I do, I suppose it's just because I find them pointless. What purpose do they serve, exactly? I can't wear them, they're not going to spit out money, I can't eat them, all I can do is stand there and stare at them until they wither and die.
They're also, in the nicest way possible, a cop-out gift, there is no sentimental value to them whatsoever and they don't serve any purpose other than just sitting there and looking pretty. I've had an intense disdain for flowers ever since I was a young child—when my parents would have massive arguments and screaming matches, my dad used to buy my mom flowers the next day as an apology as if the flowers could magically fix everything that was wrong with their marriage, only for the same situation to happen all over again. She would take them, smell them, place them in an expensive ceramic vase, set the vase full of flowers atop a windowsill and then forget they even existed until they wilted, and I couldn't blame her. Like I said, they're a cop-out gift. Meaningless.
The one thing I loved about Gojo dearly during our highly tumultuous relationship was that he knew I hated flowers, in fact, I didn't even need to tell him that. He told me that I was a girl who deserved more than just measly flowers, and you know what, he was fucking right. Whenever we had a fight, or when it was Valentine's Day, or an anniversary, or my birthday, he would spoil me with all these lavish gifts that I still use to this very day—an expensive coffee machine, a brand new laptop, an iPhone, jewellery, makeup, clothes, money, you name it. Call me materialistic, I don't really care. Shoot me for enjoying the more finer things in life. Burn me at the stake for expecting more than just a bouquet of flowers from my partner. I don't give a shit.
That's not to say that if someone gifts me a bouquet of flowers—I'll be an evil, heartless witch and toss them in the trash. No, however—I'm not going to jump with joy, my heart is not going to leap in my chest, I'm not going to give the guy who gifted them to me the best, sloppiest head they'll ever receive, but I'll appreciate the gesture and they'll get a friendly thank you from me, that's about it.
This rant has not come from nowhere, though—it all started this morning when I entered my classroom and saw a bouquet of roses sitting on my desk with a small envelope lodged between two roses, it was safe to say that I was extremely confused. Most girls, when they receive a bouquet of roses, their hearts would probably sing with joy, they'd get excited, they'd feel giddy—me, on the other hand, feels nothing. Absolutely nothing. I am indifferent. I just think—oh, roses. Great. Are the petals made out of dollar bills?
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