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Withered flowers are still flowers~
Morning light spilled across the apartment in pale gold ribbons, soft enough to make even neglected things appear gentle.
Nevaeh sat cross-legged on the floor beside the coffee table, a massive bouquet resting between her knees.
Some flowers were still alive.
The cream roses near the center remained delicate and full, their petals unfolding gracefully toward the sunlight. Small white lilies carried the faint scent of freshness, while the eucalyptus branches still held traces of cool green beneath their silver leaves.
But around them, time had already begun its quiet work.
Hydrangea petals curled inward at the edges. Several roses had deepened into bruised shades of burgundy and rust, their stems brittle beneath her fingers. Tiny flakes of dried petals littered the table like colored dust.
The bouquet looked uneven now.
Half living.
Half fading.
Nevaeh reached toward one of the withered roses and bent the stem carefully.
Snap.
The sound was soft.
Dry.
Too delicate for something once alive.
She placed the flower beside her.
Then another.
And another.
Dead petals gathered slowly across the wooden floorboards, clinging to the fabric of her oversized sweater before drifting away again. The apartment remained quiet except for distant traffic outside and the faint rustle of flowers shifting against one another.
She should throw them away.
That was the purpose of this.
Remove the ruined pieces. Save what still looked beautiful.
Her fingers continued automatically.
Fresh.
Withered.
Fresh.
Withered.
The rhythm settled into her mind until the words no longer sounded like flowers at all.
One stem cracked sharply between her fingers.
And suddenly something tightened painfully inside her chest.
“You’re too sensitive.”
The memory arrived without warning.
Another voice followed.
“You always make everything difficult.”
Then softer still:
“You looked prettier before.”
Nevaeh’s breathing stalled for half a second.
Morning light still filled the apartment.
The flowers still rested in her lap.
But her body reacted as though it had been dragged years backward anyway.
Funny.
People spoke about emotional wounds as if they were invisible things, but Nevaeh had always felt them physically.
In the way her shoulders instinctively tensed whenever someone sighed too heavily near her.
In the way she apologized before fully understanding what she had done wrong.
In the way kindness made her uneasy, as though affection always came with conditions hidden beneath it.
At fourteen, she learned silence kept arguments shorter.
At seventeen, she learned love could disappear the moment she became inconvenient.
At twenty-two, she learned some people admired softness only when it asked for nothing in return.
Another stem snapped quietly in her hand.
This rose had dried almost completely, its once velvet petals now thin as parchment beneath her fingertips.
Fragile.
And yet still unmistakably a flower.
Nevaeh lowered her gaze.
Her name meant heaven backwards.
She used to think that sounded beautiful when she was younger.
Now it only felt strangely fitting.
A reversed thing was still the original thing, wasn’t it?
Just changed.
Turned inward somehow.
Her chest ached unexpectedly at the thought.
Beside her, the fresh flowers remained standing proudly inside the vase. Bright. Alive. Easy to admire.
The withered ones rested near her knee.
Only after several quiet minutes did Nevaeh finally realize what her hands had been doing.
She froze slightly.
The flowers she removed were not scattered carelessly across the floor.
Without noticing, she had been arranging them.
The brittle roses rested together naturally beside faded hydrangeas and dried sprigs of baby's breath, their muted colors blending softly into shades of dusty ivory, bruised wine, muted gold, and pale brown.
Nevaeh stared silently.
The bouquet looked…
Beautiful.
Not in the same way fresh flowers were beautiful.
Not bright.
Not youthful.
But softer somehow.
More honest.
The dried petals curled inward delicately, carrying the weight of time inside every fragile edge. There was history in them. Survival. Proof that they had endured changing seasons instead of disappearing beneath them.
Her throat tightened unexpectedly.
For years, Nevaeh had quietly thought of herself the same way she thought of these flowers.
Not ruined enough to throw away entirely.
Just no longer fresh enough to choose first.
The realization settled painfully inside her chest.
Morning sunlight touched the dried bouquet gently, illuminating every faded color instead of hiding it.
And suddenly Nevaeh became aware of her own reflection in the nearby window.
Quiet eyes.
Tired posture.
A girl shaped carefully around old damage.
And still—
Still here.
Her fingers tightened softly around the stems.
The color fades, the petals dry,
Beneath the gaze of a changing sky.
Still holding grace through silent hours,
Withered flowers are still flowers.
