Flowers In His Hair - H.S

H.S. Flowers In His Hair - 5

Hi! I love you.

Light trigger warning.

Read between the lines. What's fucked up, and everything's alright. Green Day - Boulevard Of Broken Dreams

There's been a new development in my mediocre life. The Lemon Balm I accidentally crushed in front of my door wasn't the last flowers I've received.

It's random, but now and then, flowers rest on the ground when I open my front door. It's always signed 'A,' and there's still a note attached with a yellow ribbon.

"Hey Sunshine, catch," I yell, and she turns around just on time to be hit with a bunch of flowers in the face. "Harry!" She wines. "Sorry, sunshine, love hurts." I shrug my shoulders. "I hope your sock is always just slightly rotated in your shoes!" She yells, sticking out her tongue at me.

I smile at the memory; it was a good day. You don't have to make everything about her, you know. I tell myself. As if I even have a choice.

It's become a habit of mine to look down the moment I open my door. It comes at the perfect time to, after every nightmare. Sometimes I find them even when I don't have one, but then the flower's meaning is always more on the positive side.

Even though it's kind of creepy, and I have a second of doubt that it might be a stalker, I can't get myself to worry too much about that. The small gesture is a bright thread that weaves itself into my blanket. It's part of me now, and I'll miss it when it stops.

I stand in the doorway clutching a paper in my hand, contemplating if I'm doing the right thing. Today I'm replacing the gift with one of my own. It's a song, one that's very close to me. I have an urge to return the favor.

Music is my most effective form of expression; it's my flowers. You're stupid. I should crumble it up and throw it away. I sigh loudly; why does everything have to cause me inner turmoil. I rub my hand over my eyes, just put the fucking paper down and go to work.

I gaze at the lyrics once again, reading over them slowly. I don't know why I'm doing this because they're burned into my veins already. It's a song about loneliness, about walking alone in life.

I'm scared because I haven't been this vulnerable in years. I'm never this open. I roll the paper neatly and push the elastic over it. I place it on the ground before I lose my nerve and walk away. I want to turn around the whole, way but I don't because maybe that person needs it more than I do. I hope she reads between the lines.

I use to find a beat in everything I do I use to play drums against the oven with breadsticks or make up silly songs on the spot. I always have this thought in the back of my mind, nibbling on my mind that I should end it.

What kind of life is this? I have to check my vital signs to know I'm still alive. I didn't ask for this; it was never my choice to be here.

I hum the song all the way to work; it's stuck in my head the whole day. I sing it while I wait for some pastries to finish in the oven; the lyrics run through my head when I ring up a client, and as I put away my apron at the end of my shift, I whistle it all the way home.

The streets are empty; the only lights are the dim streetlamps. The paper is gone when I get home, and a flash of dread crosses over me, but I push it down. They don't know who I am; I have nothing to worry about. A small smile pulls onto my face; someone cares enough.

I pour a drink and make my way to the patio. I call my parents, and the conversation goes on for so long that my phone is burning my ear. I catch up with them for a while, but I hear the first notes; I end the call with a hasty goodbye. I lean back in the chair; my feet rest on the rails of the narrow balcony. I close my eyes, pretending I'm in Cape Town again.