Siya's life in Chandipur was marked by resilience and solitude, her days consumed by nurturing the vibrant blooms of her flower shop. Abandoned at birth and haunted by the mystery of her parents' disappearance, she had grown accustomed to the whispe...
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It had been a single day, yet it felt like a lifetime. I paced the room like a restless tiger, the silence around me deafening. Guilt clawed at my chest, a constant reminder of the words I had carelessly thrown her way. Words that now felt like venom, words I couldn't take back no matter how much I wished to.
I had tried...oh, how I had tried to mend things. The moment she turned her back on me, I knew I had made a grave mistake. I sent flowers, the best ones I could find. Cards filled with heartfelt apologies that I knew weren't enough. I had even typed and deleted dozens of messages before finally sending her the ones I thought sounded sincere.
And what did I get in return?
"50 buckets of flowers rejected; try harder!" That was her reply. It was delivered through the florist, a note tucked inside the rejected bouquet. Try harder, she had written, as if I wasn't already pulling my hair out in frustration. My wife is choosing the same to make it upto her.
"How hard am I supposed to try?" I muttered under my breath, throwing myself onto the bed. My voice echoed in the empty room, but no answer came. I grabbed my phone and stared at her picture, one I had taken secretly while she was laughing at something. Her smile was radiant, the kind that could light up my days.
This morning, it had been me who dropped her off at her parents' house. Her father had tried to insist I stay for breakfast, but she had quickly shut him down with a polite yet firm excuse. "He has tons of work waiting for him papa," she had said, her tone deliberately dripping with sweetness. The look in her eyes was enough to remind me of my place for the day; a guilty husband banished to solitude.
So here I was, sprawled on the bed we usually shared, clutching my phone like it was the only connection I had left to her. My thumb hovered over her contact, debating whether to call her for the hundredth time.
"She won't answer," I mumbled, running a hand through my hair. The thought of her ignoring me again only added to my frustration. I tossed the phone onto the pillow and let out a growl of annoyance.
"This is ridiculous! How am I supposed to fix this if she won't even talk to me?" I muttered to myself, pacing the room again. The image of her rejecting my flowers flashed in my mind, and I couldn't help but laugh bitterly.
Fifty buckets. Fifty! Who even has the patience to count them? Until soon realisation hit me hard when I was doing the same. But beneath the frustration was a gnawing ache; a longing to hold her, to see her smile, to hear her voice. I missed her terribly. The house felt like a void without her presence. Even the air seemed heavier, as if it, too, resented me for pushing her away. I sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed and resting my head in my hands.
"I'm coming," I whispered to the empty room.
"I'll fix this today!"
"I don't care if it takes a hundred buckets of flowers. I'll do whatever it takes to win you back," And with that resolve, I grabbed my phone again. If flowers weren't enough, maybe it was time to get creative. She wanted me to try harder? Fine. Challenge accepted.
