I didn’t think I’d get here — this quiet, soft part of life where I’m no longer bracing for impact. There was a time when love felt like a storm I had to survive. When I gave too much, hoped too hard, and stayed too long for someone who never really chose me. I gave pieces of myself away, trying to hold something together that was never meant to last. That chapter ended with unanswered prayers, a broken heart, and a kid who saved me without even knowing it.
I learned to stand alone. I learned to love quietly — not someone else, but myself. It was a long walk back to wholeness. And just when I had stopped expecting love to come in a grand, sweeping gesture… it came in something softer.
He came into the office today holding a bouquet of peonies. Not roses. Not lilies. Peonies — full, delicate, intentional.
He stood there in his usual crisp button-down, sleeves slightly rolled up, like he didn’t even realize how good he looked just being present. The flowers looked almost too delicate in his hands — like they didn’t quite belong there, but he carried them with care anyway.
He smiled — that chinky-eyed smile that always catches me off guard — and I felt my heart tug a little. And then he handed me the bouquet. I froze for a second, surprised. How could he have known? Peonies had always been my favorite flowers — a detail I don’t think I had ever shared with him. But there they were, perfect and tender, like they’d been chosen just for me.
Before I could fully gather my thoughts, he asked if I had eaten, offering to take me out for lunch, just to save me from all the noise. Since I was stuck in meetings, my mates went ahead and I was left behind during lunch. I had the hour for myself and I said yes.
He took me somewhere far too fancy for a regular lunch hour — the kind of place I wouldn’t normally find myself in, but to him, it was casual. Extravagant, but effortless. He pulled out my chair like it was second nature. Not performative. Just thoughtful. Present.
Over lunch, we found ourselves talking about football. He played, too, and we laughed about my missed goal — how I totally missed but also the team still carried on to win the match anyway. He chuckled, recalling how he once played sudden death 1-on-1 against a much bulkier guy and somehow still came out on top. It was a rare moment, light and easy, like we were sharing more than just stories — we were sharing pieces of ourselves.
He shared a few bits about his recent trip — I asked, and he lit up talking about it. His eyes softened as he recounted the places he’d seen, and I realized I liked hearing him talk about things he loved.
He asked about work, and I happily announced I had recently won an award. His face lit up with a genuine smile, but I could see something deeper in his eyes — the quiet pride he had for me. This guy had been so patient, watching me study, picking me up from workshops, always there — not in a way that demanded anything, just there when I needed him, quietly supporting.
I noticed how he looked at me while I talked — not like he was waiting for his turn to speak, but like every word I said mattered. Like he was tucking pieces of me into his memory. I laughed at something silly, and he smiled again — soft, steady. The kind of smile that doesn’t need attention, it just is.
From the way he asked things — never intrusive, just curious — I could tell he saw more than the surface. Through our conversations and the gentle way he threw questions my way, I realized he understood the depth of my character. And more than that — he wanted to know more. Not to analyze me, not to figure me out, but simply to meet me where I am.
He didn’t try to impress me with promises or perfect words. But when I talked about Lukas, about my fears and my dreams, he leaned in. Not because he had to — but because he wanted to understand. And when I paused, searching for the right words, he waited patiently. Like the silence didn’t scare him.
It wasn’t fireworks. It wasn’t a grand declaration.
It was peace. It was presence. It was being seen without having to explain myself.
And when he handed me the bouquet of peonies, I held them in my hands a little longer than expected. The soft petals felt like something I could hold onto, something that didn't demand anything but just was. Quiet, steady. Like love doesn't always need to be loud to be felt.
Today, I’ve realized that love doesn’t need to be complicated.
Today, he brought peonies. And honestly? Peonies are all I need.
