don't say you love me... | camren au

...unless you do

Roses. Yellow roses.

They're all that she sees when she enters the restaurant.

It's Wednesday, which means it's her weekly night out, and Camila is surprised – to say the least – when she sees the sheer amount of flowers that have been spread across– that have been spread all over the place. They're covering most of the tables. Some of the chairs. Even the bar; at least a dozen roses have been put into wine glasses. Beer glasses. Champagne glasses, too.

Camila doesn't know what to think. Part of her wants to smile at the effort that has been put into this, another part of her wants to flee the scene and never come back. Because this hasn't ever happened before. She's never seen so many bouquets just randomly laying around – not at home, and certainly not in a restaurant she merely visits once a week.

It's weird, seeing the place like this. It's completely empty – except for the flowers, of course. When normally, there are customers everywhere, and staff members are running around, taking orders and serving food. When normally, there are no roses. (Okay, maybe sometimes, like, say, when couples are having a nice dinner together but– not like this.)

Camila is sure she has never seen this many roses before.

Yellow roses. God, she didn't even know these existed. Until now. Obviously.

She looks around. Someone has got to be here, right? A waiter, a waitress, someone. Someone has got to have placed the ocean of beautiful flowers in here. Maybe they're just hiding?

She tentatively crosses the room in hopes of finding at least a hint as to who's responsible for basically rearranging her go-to restaurant. She bites her lip in anticipation. If she weren't scared by out-of-the-ordinary stuff, she might actually think of this as something romantic seen as someone has obviously studied her well enough to know that her favorite flowers are roses. That someone obviously also knows that Camila does not only love the appearance of roses but also their smell.

It's really intense.

So the buyer has paid attention to this aspect in particular, has made sure that the roses don't just look good, no, that they're perfect.

Something catches Camila's eye then. It's something unlike all the roses, something yellow, yes, but–

Camila takes a closer look. And– yes, she was right. It's a sunflower. She starts grinning. Someone very obviously knows that her favorite color is yellow; which– no, she definitely doesn't only love roses, she also loves sunflowers. A lot. Because they're yellow.

Again, if this weren't a teeny tiny bit scary, Camila would be flattered.

But– okay, maybe she is. As much as she hates to admit it, she's enjoying this. She likes the fact that someone knows her this well. She likes the fact that someone has gone this far to–to what? Impress her?

Suddenly, the smile leaves her face; she knits her eyebrows instead. While she was taking her surroundings in – or rather, while she was in awe – she did not stop to wonder exactly why anyone would do this for her.

Or to ask herself an even bigger question: Who would do something like this?

The only person that would come to mind is– no. No, that can't possibly be. It's been more than five years. It's been over for so much longer than that, and– no. It can't be. It couldn't be her.