"Make my son fall in love with you."
"But he's gay."
-♚-
He became rainbow, and she became rain; for when the future king of Roséton unveiled his sexuality on the night of enthronement, Flora Rose...
" and if you don't like me, as i do you; i understand.
because who would choose a daisy, in a field of roses? "
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P R E L U D E o r a c l e o f t h e d a i s y
He loves me.
HER LOVE WAS like a flower, and it was wilting.
Flowers in her clothes, petals between her fingertips, her heart became thorns among the roses. It was as fragile as blossoms, and she suddenly couldn't breathe.
Scattered below her feet were flower petals, ranging from all kinds of types. She plucked more out and let her fingers release the hold on them; and they fell carelessly to the ground, the ground where her heart was repeatedly stamped over and over again.
He loves me not.
She tasted the poison of those very words, and she couldn't bear the vile flavor of it in her mouth. Her heart tore in two, tore into pieces that could never be fixed, and she wondered how easy it was for him to make her crumble.
He loves me.
And then back was the hope and determination in her eyes. It twinkled like the stars in the sky, and made flowers bloom even in the darkest parts of her. She then, wondered how easy it was for him to make her all rainbows and roses.
The world wasn't so much as loud as her beating heart; pounding it was in her ears, with blood coursing through her veins and loneliness seeping into her skin.
He loves me not.
And it was at this moment did the sky start to cry.
She almost did too.
Tears pooled in her eyes, but she quickly wiped them away. She feared the judgemental stares of society, the backbiting whispers, and she wanted all of that to go away at the mere blink of an eye. Crying is okay, she chanted to herself.
The rain was but a mere drizzle, but it still had stained her as she sat down a nearby bench. The cold, silent winds that howled throughout caused goosebumps to erupt in the surface of her skin, and she shivered — shivered at the cold, the frigid emotion of loneliness, the ice and thorns that surrounded her entire being.
He loves me.
A door opened, chime ringing, and out came someone. His face a bright orange through the lampposts that shined throughout.
"There you are." The voice breathed out and sat themselves next to her. "Why're you out here in the rain, darling?"
He opened up the small umbrella, and protected themselves from the barrage of raindrops. For that, she smiled.
She was silent at first. But then, with a whisper, she said, "I'm just thinking."
A sigh escaped the person's lips, a hand hesitantly reaching out and holding her own. Fingers twined with one another, and weaved together like fabric. It was warm, smooth, and it almost cracked the ice that surrounded her, almost. She jolted at the touch, but didn't pull away.
"I'm sorry about... him."
"There's nothing to apologize for." She quickly shook her head, strands of brown hair falling in front of her eyes. "Some things aren't meant to be controlled."
And silence dawned upon them. The busy streets of Vines filled the atmosphere, filled the air that sparked with comfortable tranquil. The person leaned into her shoulders, and their warmth became one. Taking her hand away from the other's grasp, she plucked another petal.
He loves me not.
She spoke again, "I'm happy for him."
"How about you, are you happy that he's gay?" The voice replied.
All was silent again.
She knew she was happy for him — her crush of five years, for being able to freely express his sexuality. But on the inside, she was slowly dying. The flowers of hope within her were wilting, but with a little bit of water and extra care, she may be able to grow them back.
He loves me.
There was hesitation. "I... I don't know."
Her eyes briefly watched the silhouette stand, an arm extended towards her. She eyed it wearily, and from close proximity, she could barely make out the lines of their palm. The palm that once covered her own and gave her warmth.
Fingers briefly shook. "Come on, darling, let's go back inside. Maybe after, we can go home and take out Italian, if you'd like?"
She looked at the daisy in her grasp, a lone, final petal attached to the floral head. With a heartbroken sigh, reality hit her hard, and she plucked the final petal with hesitant, shaking fingers.
He loves me not.
And then she glanced back to the hand, and with a sad smile on her face, she took it.
"I'd love that."
Her love was like a flower, and maybe, maybe it'll bloom again.
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F L O R A T H E W H I T E D A I S Y innocence, purity
