Chapter 1: the flower ♡
Today’s my first day of college, and I already feel too tired to face it. My eyelids are sandpaper, my throat raw from tossing and turning, my head heavy as if sleep never touched me. The alarm clock on my nightstand blinks mockingly, its red digits screaming at me to move, to get up, to act like my life is worth something.
I drag myself upright, clutching the blanket for a moment longer, wishing I could disappear back into it. But I can’t. Responsibility doesn’t care about exhaustion.
“Julie!” I yell, walking across the hall to my sister’s room. She’s a lump beneath the covers, hair spilling out like tangled dark threads. “Wake up! I have to drive you to school before I’m late for my classes!”
She groans, muffled, before flipping over and glaring at me with narrowed eyes. Even half-asleep, her words cut with precision.
“Would you shut the fuck up, Rose?! You’re not my mother. Let me sleep! This is why you have no friends, and your boyfriend blocked you and pretended he shot himself! You’re boring!”
Her voice cracks like a whip, leaving behind nothing but sting.
The words hit harder than I want them to. My chest clenches, breath faltering. For a moment, I freeze in place, forcing myself not to cry. She’s not exactly wrong.
Jason was already depressed when I met him. I didn’t mind—I thought love meant helping someone carry their burdens. The night we met was the night his grandmother died. He was broken, shattered, and I stayed on the phone with him until the sun rose, whispering promises that he wasn’t alone. I helped him survive the funeral, held him together through his spirals, kept him afloat for three whole months. I thought it meant something.
Apparently, it wasn’t enough.
The day I asked him not to joke about sleeping with my friends, he blocked me. Then he texted that he’d shoot himself. My heart still trembles when I think of that message, the cruelty wrapped in his despair. Two weeks later I saw him at the park making out with some other girl with his hands up her skirt.
“O-okay, Julie… that’s enough. Please, just get out of bed.”
Julie rolls her eyes and sits up, her hair wild, her face twisted with irritation.
“Ugh, fine! You’re so boring.”
Her voice is heavy with disgust, but the relief that floods me as she moves is undeniable.
The car ride is silent. Julie scrolls on her phone, chewing gum, her legs kicked up on the dashboard. I grip the steering wheel tighter, the pressure grounding me, reminding me to breathe.
By the time I drop her off, the clock already mocks me. I’m late. Panic ignites, crawling through my veins like fire.
The college campus looms ahead—too big, too loud, too alive. Students swarm the sidewalks, laughter spilling from every corner. They look effortless, like they belong here. I, on the other hand, feel like an intruder, a shadow in a world made of light.
I run. My backpack slams against my spine with each frantic step. My shoes echo down the hallway, every thud reminding me I’m falling behind. My heart races faster than my legs, my vision blurred with tears.
This is my fault. Everything is always my fault. I can’t do anything right. Everyone knows it. Everyone sees it. Worthless. Weak. Broken.
Then—impact.
I crash into someone. Hard. My body jerks backward, balance slipping, but strong hands shoot out and catch me by the arms.
“Careful,” a voice says, deep and steady.
I blink up, and my lungs forget how to work.
He towers over me, easily 6’4, his build lean but undeniably muscular—the kind of strength that feels effortless yet controlled. Dark brown wavy hair falls carelessly across his forehead, framing a face that could stop time. His eyes—bright green, sharp, unyielding—lock onto mine, and for a split second I feel exposed, like he can see everything I’m trying to hide.
His skin is olive-toned, smooth and warm, the kind that hints at long Italian summers. Every movement is precise, controlled, deliberate—like he’s always aware of the effect he has on people. He looks like he could step out of a film about la Cosa Nostra, dangerous yet magnetic, commanding fear and respect without trying.
It’s not just that he’s handsome—it’s that he feels alive in a way that makes the world shrink. The hallway lights catch the edge of his jaw, the curve of his shoulders, and I notice the way his fingers wrap around mine—not tight, but anchoring.
My throat tightens. My words fail me. Panic claws at my chest, leaving me trembling, mute. Say something. Anything. But nothing comes.
“Hey…” His voice softens, almost a whisper, yet it cuts through the chaos around me. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying? It’s okay, it was just an accident. I don’t mind.”
My fists clench, nails digging into my palms. My eyes sting, shame burning through me. Why can’t you just talk? Why can’t you be normal? Why are you so fucking broken?
“Where were you going in such a rush?”
I fumble for a pen and scrap of paper, scrawling my class number with shaking hands. I shove it into his hand before I can lose the courage.
He glances at it, then the corner of his mouth quirks up—half-smile, half-smirk. Something sharp, calculating, aware.
“Oh. I know where that is. I passed it earlier. Come on—I’ll walk you there.”
His hand finds mine, warm, confident, grounding. I should pull away, but I don’t. My body moves almost of its own accord, tethered to him. Every step beside him is suffocating and intoxicating, my heartbeat thudding in my ears.
The hallway seems to empty around him. Conversations die mid-word; students lower their gazes, parting instinctively. They aren’t avoiding me—it’s him. The aura he carries is dangerous, magnetic, suffocating. I can feel it pressing against my skin, whispering at the back of my mind that this is someone not to be trifled with.
Time stretches, and every heartbeat drags like a weight. My face is burning, my palms sweating, but I can’t bring myself to let go. I notice the small details—how his thumb brushes lightly over mine as he walks, the faint masculine scent of his cologne which smells like a midnight walk on the beach, the subtle rise and fall of his chest. It’s almost intimate, terrifyingly so, and I’m frozen by it.
Finally, we reach the classroom. The doors swing open, and the room falls silent. Literally. The chatter stops mid-word. The students freeze, eyes flickering to him and then down to their desks, avoiding him like he’s a storm ready to break.
“S-Silas! You two are late, please… please take a seat,” the professor stammers, voice trembling. His eyes dart nervously between me and the boy beside me.
Silas.
Even after we sit, the silence lingers, heavy, almost suffocating. Everyone avoids looking directly at him, whispering in hurried, careful tones. He leans back, one arm draped casually over the back of his chair, the other resting on the desk, and yet the room seems to shrink around him.
I risk a glance. He’s calm, bored almost, but there’s an intensity in his green eyes that makes me shiver. It’s like he can see everything—and nothing—at the same time. My pulse quickens.
It isn’t me they’re staring at.
It’s him.
And from the way the room recoils from his presence, one truth gnaws at me.
They’re afraid of Silas.
But why?
