Emulous (h.s)

07

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Plucking the delicate petals from the flower one by one, a sense of both eagerness and unease fills me. The familiar game of "she loves me, she loves me not" seems almost trivial in the grand scheme of things, yet here I am, caught in its whimsical grasp.

"She loves me," I muse as the first petal came away, a small grin tugging at my lips. It feels like a hopeful affirmation, a gentle nudge from fate in the direction I long for.

The second petal drifts down. "She loves me not," I muttered, a flicker of uncertainty touching the edges of my thoughts. But I brush it aside. This is just a game, after all, a simple play of chance.

As I pluck petal after petal, the chant continues, each declaration weaving a delicate dance between hope and doubt. "She loves me." Pluck. "She loves me not." Pluck. The flower's response seems almost arbitrary, a trick of fate that holds no real bearing on my reality.

"She loves me," I say again, a touch of stubbornness creeping into my voice. The petals' rhythm had become a comforting cadence, a melody that drowns out any lingering uncertainty.

And then, the final petal. "She loves me not..." The words hung in the air, a declaration that should have sent a pang of disappointment through me. But instead, I feel an inexplicable sense of defiance rise within.

"That's stupid," I scoff, a rueful smile quirking my lips. The absurdity of finding answers in flower petals suddenly struck me as laughable. How could something as intricate as matters of the heart be distilled into a simple game?

I placed the flower back where I had found it, shaking my head at the whimsical notion that had momentarily captivated me. Love isn't a game of chance, determined by the fall of petals. It is complex, messy, and defied easy explanations.

"This is just a game." I whisper to myself feeling the nervous pit in my stomach. "Its just an absurd game..." I wouldn't let a handful of petals dictate my emotions or beliefs. The truth of how she feels, how I feel, is far too intricate to be contained within a simple game.

"Just a game."

As I pluck another flower from the patch, a wry smile plays on my lips. The sunlight filters through the leaves, casting a warm, dappled glow on the petals. This is a scene straight out of a romantic cliché, and here I am, about to indulge in another round of whimsy.

"I love her," I state, my voice carrying a mix of certainty and a hint of amusement. The words felt weighty, carrying a truth that was unshakeable. But this is just a game, right?

Plucking the first petal, I continue, "I don't." The contradiction between the words and my inner certainty makes me chuckle softly. How could a simple flower possibly hold the complexities of my emotions?

"I love her," I repeat, watching as the petal drifts to the ground. The air seems to hold a hushed anticipation, as if nature itself is waiting to see what verdict the flower would render.

Pluck. "I don't." The words sounded almost mocking now, a playful challenge to the suppose power of the game. I know my heart, and I know my feelings. No flower could sway that.

"I love her," I declare once more, the grin on my face widening. It is like a game of tug-of-war between reality and a childlike game, and I find myself enjoying the absurdity of it all.

Pluck. "I don't." The final petal joined its companions on the ground, and I stay stood there, surrounded by scattered petals and filtered sunlight.

With a laugh, I shake my head. Well, that settles it. Even the great game of 'she loves me, she loves me not' can't match what I already know.

I turn away from the flowers, a renewed sense of confidence in my heart. Love isn't a game of chance or a whimsical test. It is a deep, unwavering connection that defied simple games and tests. And as I walk away, I carry with me the certainty of my feelings, untouched by the whims of a flower's dance.

•••

I'm behind the wheel, cruising through the city streets with Zayn by my side. The city lights are painting streaks of color across the windshield as we chat.

"It really has been a long time since we ever went out together." I tell glancing at Zayn reminiscing our college era.

"Yes. Personally it has been long since I hung out with any friends." He replies. My eyebrows shudders, "You don't go with any friend anymore?"

He sighs, "Just been looking over work and family." Little do I wanna punch him in the face for seeming so upset for just being with Mallory all his free time and still complaining about life.

"I seriously wanna attend any wedding. Been long since that too." He mumbles and makes me chuckle when he adds, "When are you getting married?"

"Are you seriously not in love with any women, Harry?" He sounds annoyed when I don't stop chuckling.

I am. With your wife.

I click my tongue in response to his question that makes him whine.

I keep a brief pause before saying, "Maybe someone..."

"I knew it! It had to be." I crackle on his enthusiasm.

"Who is she?" He asks.

I sigh heavily not knowing if it's a good idea to play this type of game or not.

"Do I know her?" He adds.

I nod a little.

"June?" I'm stunned by him guessing the name. Why would he think that?

"Why is it your guess?" I inquire.

"Mallory said, you guys seem to have something." My brows raises in amusement. "Mallory said, what?"

I want to push him out of car when he replies with the same previous statement, and not getting sign that I wanted him to elaborate. "So, are you in love with June?" He queries with a mischievous grin.

"I...don't even know what love is." I shrug replying.

He chuckles, "You'll know when you'll actually fall in love." My eyes are gonna pop out of my head that's how hard I rolled it.

I envy every second of his life.

I envy words he doesn't has to think twice before telling Mallory.

I envy the way he gets to look at her and doesn't has to feel bad about it.

I envy every smile Mallory flashes on him.

I envy that her voice is the last thing he hears before sleeping.

I envy that her beautiful face is the first thing he gets to see waking up.

I envy he can open his heart to her just because he could.

I envy that he doesn't has to envy me. He has no reason to envy anyone. He is having a perfect life. A beautiful stunning wife.

My knuckles turns white gripping on staring wheel. And ever since I've been here I've never spent a second in my life when my jaw doesn't has to clench.

I can keep Mallory happier.

Why can't I?

Why does she has to be with him?

So what if they're married?

People end up divorcing.

Why can't these two?

And if they can't make themselves do something worth divorcing—

Why can't I make them?