Sometimes we lose ourselves in the bloom of someone else's promise-chasing petals, mistaking their phantom fragrance for roots. But vows, once soft as peonies, fade like bruised roses. And in the cracks between forever and almost, our silence whispers: this is not how gardens grow. Just how love unravels.

The heart's quiet ache, a symphony of yearning played out in the shadows. It's a dance of silent admiration, a tender touch of emotions, a melody that echoes in the chambers of the soul, yet denied its rightful rhythm by a cruel hand of fate. How far will this unspoken feelings go?