My Flower

They called her “the quiet girl with the books,” but to me, she was something else entirely. From the first moment I saw her sitting alone under the cherry blossom tree in our college garden, I felt like she didn’t just belong there—she was the blossom.

It was early spring, and the garden had just begun to bloom. I was running late for my literature class, but I stopped for a second when I spotted her. She had a worn-out novel in one hand, and with the other, she gently brushed petals from her lap, as if not to disturb their beauty.

I don’t know what made me turn back after class that day. Maybe it was the soft way she carried herself, or maybe the way the wind didn’t move her hair as much as it danced with it. I found myself sitting a few feet away from her the next day, pretending to read.

She looked at me once. Just once.

And smiled.

A shy, unsure smile—but it stayed with me for hours.

Her name was Noor. A final-year botany student who spent more time with plants than people. She liked quiet spaces, tea without sugar, and poetry with sad endings. I, on the other hand, was loud, clumsy, always surrounded by friends, and known for cracking jokes even in the library.

Opposites? Absolutely.

But something about Noor made me slow down.

I began visiting the garden more often. We’d exchange nods, then words, then conversations. She’d tell me about her research—how sunflowers turn toward the light, how orchids bloom once a year, how some flowers never fully open unless it rains.

“I think people are like flowers,” she once said, eyes on the petals in her hand. “Some bloom when they're loved. Some never get the chance.”

That stayed with me.

So I started bringing her flowers. Not store-bought bouquets, but little wildflowers I’d find near the back fences or petals pressed inside books. At first, she’d laugh and say I was silly. But she always kept them.

Every time she opened her notebook, one would flutter out like a quiet reminder: Someone thinks you’re worth blooming for.

We grew closer in the silence of that garden.

When I had a bad day, she didn’t offer solutions—just her presence. When she lost her mother’s locket during a stormy night, I stayed up with her searching muddy corners of the garden until we found it half-buried under the bench.

She said thank you in the softest voice.

I said nothing, just held her hand.

And in that moment, everything changed.

I realized I loved her.

But I didn’t say it right away. I didn’t want to startle her—didn’t want to turn something delicate into something heavy. So instead, I kept showing up, kept listening, kept choosing her.

Then, one golden afternoon, as we sat watching the sun set behind the neem trees, she leaned on my shoulder.

“I don’t like loud love,” she whispered.

“I know,” I said.

“I like soft love. Like the kind you don’t see, but feel.”

I smiled. “Like flowers that bloom slowly?”

She nodded. “Like that.”

And that’s when I told her.

“You’re my flower, Noor.”

She didn’t respond right away. But she looked at me, really looked, and for the first time, I saw her fully open—vulnerable, beautiful, and glowing in the fading light.

“I’ve always been scared to bloom,” she said. “But you… you’ve been gentle.”

She didn’t say I love you.

She didn’t have to.

Her fingers found mine, and that was enough.

Our final year passed in moments that felt stolen from time. Study breaks in the garden. Notes shared over coffee. Pressed flowers inside each other’s books. I once found a rose petal in my wallet with a note: For being the sunlight I never knew I needed.

After graduation, we stood under the same cherry blossom tree where it all began.

“What now?” I asked.

She smiled. “Let’s keep blooming.”

And we did.

We built a life together. A home with potted plants on every windowsill, quiet mornings with tea and poetry, and long walks through gardens in every city we visited. On our first anniversary, I gave her a tiny glass bottle filled with every petal she’d ever kept.

She cried.

Happy tears.

Years later, people still ask me, “Why do you call her ‘your flower’?”

And I tell them—because she taught me that real love doesn’t always roar. Sometimes, it whispers. It grows quietly. It holds your hand in silence. And if you’re patient, it blooms into something more beautiful than you ever imagined.


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Have you ever loved someone who bloomed slowly, gently, in their own time? What small acts of love helped your relationship grow stronger? Share your story—we’d love to hear how your love story blossomed.

Note:
This story was created with the assistance of AI (ChatGPT), then manually edited for originality, accuracy, and alignment with Vocal Media’s guidelines.