A Single Daffodil [Harry Styles]

Prologue.

He loves me, he loves me not.

Have you ever considered how extraordinary it is, that flowers have the power of being versatile? Seriously, think about it. A bouquet of flowers can be pertinent for just about...well, anything! How about an elegant bouquet of white roses, for the keen bride-to-be? A subtle, quaint corsage, carefully clasped around the wrist of a high school student's first prom date. A full bouquet of red roses for the young lady, delivered by a cheerful young man that she met two months ago, or even for an elderly woman, who is about to celebrate her fiftieth wedding anniversary. A daisy picked from the garden, to brighten a little girl's day, or a yellow rose for a sick relative bedridden in a hospital. I mean, seriously. You cannot deny the magic.

Although the gesture of giving flowers can adapt to just about any type of situation you can think of, the good deed symbolizes one thing: love. Complete and utter, love. Affection and tenderness and adoration can be found deep within the curves of a flower, hidden beneath the wispy, subtle twists of their petals. A bouquet of flowers is one's physical way of giving and receiving love. It blooms, it blossoms, and it's beautiful.

He loves me, he loves me not.

So, okay. I know what you're thinking. Why is she dissecting the simple act of flower-giving?

It's my job to think like this. No, really. Working at a flower shop, smack down in the middle of South Beach, Miami, has quite literally turned me into some hopeless romantic. Can you really blame me though? I'm constantly meeting customers, making orders for their wives, girlfriends, daughters, best friends, grandparents, neighbors...the list goes on! My eyes turn into beating hearts as I melt into the front counter and listen to customers describe their perfect, unrivaled relationships with their other halves, who undoubtedly mean the world to them. I live for their well-illustrated tales of endearment. And after every night, when I lock up the store and ride my bicycle or drive my car back home for the night, I find myself crawling into bed with a powerful sense of urge and longing for a romance of my own.

He loves me, he loves me not.

I have excuses for lacking in the love department. School keeps me busy, cutting flowers at work keeps me busy, visiting my dad at his job definitely keeps me busy. There is no time for meeting guys in my spare time. I mean, I could easily take the short route to meeting a future boyfriend by dressing up and hitting up some of the most sought out clubs in Miami. It would take less time to nab a desperate man in a club, then it would for me to order a Big Mac at McDonald's. No thanks!

As my second year in college is nearing its final days, I can feel myself gathering more and more optimism about the upcoming summer. Work will be less-busy, summer classes were entirely out of the question, and the beach will be infested with peculiar --but eccentric-- tourists from around the world.

This summer was going to be different. I was sure of it.

He loves me, he loves me not.