Pink Tulips

The soft chime of the shop bell broke the afternoon silence as Andy rearranged a vase of tulips near the window. She always made sure the pink ones faced the street — their petals catching the light just right.

They were her favorite.

There was something about pink tulips — gentle yet strong, elegant yet simple. They were the kind of flowers that didn’t demand attention but still managed to hold it.

Andy had owned Petal & Bloom for almost twenty years. The shop was her peace — her little world of fragrance, color, and quiet joy. But sometimes, when couples came in holding hands, whispering about anniversaries or apologies, she’d feel a small ache in her chest.

She loved love. She just never had it.

Sometimes she imagined someone walking through that same door, holding flowers not for a partner or a celebration — but for her.

One cloudy Thursday, the bell rang again.

A man stood by the counter, tall and slightly grey at the temples. He looked around with hesitant eyes, as if searching for something he couldn’t quite name.

Andy wiped her hands on her apron and approached him. “Hi there,” she said, smiling softly. “Need any help?”

He turned toward her, his smile polite but uncertain. “Yes, actually. My daughter’s graduating from college today, and I’d like to get her some flowers. I’m not really sure what’s… right for the occasion.”

“How lovely,” Andy said. “You must be very proud.”

“I am,” he replied, a flicker of emotion in his voice. “It’s just… been a while since I bought her flowers.”

Andy nodded, sensing a story behind his words. “Well, if I were her, I’d love some white orchids. They symbolize admiration and new beginnings.”

He chuckled softly. “You sound like you know what you’re talking about.”

“I’ve spent half my life with flowers,” she said, smiling. “It kind of comes with the territory.”

He followed her to the display, and his eyes lit up when he saw the orchids. “These are perfect.”

At the counter, as she wrapped them, he hesitated before speaking. “I’m Charlie, by the way.”

“Andy,” she said, handing him the bouquet. “Nice to meet you, Charlie.”

He smiled. “Thank you for your help, Andy. Really.”

That night, after closing, Andy sat by her window sipping tea, thinking about him. It had been a simple interaction — polite, brief — but it left her feeling lighter somehow.

A few days later, Andy was rearranging the front display when she saw him walking past the shop window.

Without thinking, she hurried to the door. “Hi, Charlie!” she called out.

He turned, his face distant. “Oh… hey. Good thanks,” he muttered, then walked off before she could say anything else.

Andy froze, the smile fading from her lips. She wasn’t sure why it stung so much — maybe because, for a moment, she’d hoped he’d stop.

Later that afternoon, as she walked home, she spotted him again — sitting alone outside a small coffee shop. His shoulders were hunched, his hands wrapped around a mug, eyes fixed on nothing.

Something inside her tugged. She hesitated, then crossed the street.

“Hi, Charlie,” she said gently.

He looked up, surprised. “Andy. Hey.”

“You okay?” she asked, concern in her tone. “You seemed… a bit off earlier.”

He sighed, looking down. “Yeah, sorry about that. It’s been a rough week.”

She waited quietly, giving him space.

“My daughter,” he said after a moment. “I went to her graduation. She didn’t want me there. I… I thought it would be different. But when I tried to talk to her today, she said she was busy. I guess she still blames me for the divorce.”

Andy’s heart softened. “I’m so sorry, Charlie.”

He gave a small shrug, trying to smile. “Life happens, right?”

“Sometimes,” she said quietly, “but it still hurts.”

He nodded. Then after a pause, “Would you maybe… sit with me? For a bit?”

She smiled. “Sure.”

They talked for hours — about flowers, music, family, and all the things people only share when they stop pretending they’re fine. By the time they realized, the sun had dipped low and the streetlights had flickered on.

When they stood to leave, Charlie said, “I’m really glad you stopped to talk to me, Andy.”

“Me too,” she said softly.

Over the next few weeks, Charlie started stopping by the flower shop more often. Sometimes he came with an excuse — to buy flowers for a coworker or to ask about plant care — but Andy always saw through it.

One morning he brought her coffee. “Thought you could use a caffeine boost,” he said, handing it to her with a grin.

“You trying to bribe the florist now?” she teased.

“Maybe,” he said. “Is it working?”

She laughed, the sound warm and unfamiliar to her own ears. “A little.”

Their friendship grew naturally — quiet moments, soft laughter, conversations that felt like gentle waves instead of storms. Eventually, friendship turned into something more.

Charlie helped around the shop on weekends. He fixed shelves, carried boxes, and occasionally delivered bouquets when Andy was too busy.

When his daughter finally agreed to meet him for coffee, it was Andy who helped him write the message — short, kind, and hopeful.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he said one evening, standing among the tulips.

“You’d still find your way,” she replied. “Maybe just with a few less flowers.”

Five years passed in a blur of love and small joys. Petal & Bloom flourished. Photos lined the counter — Andy and Charlie at the beach, Andy and Charlie at his daughter’s wedding, Andy laughing, holding a bouquet of pink tulips.

Then one morning, she fainted.

The tests came. The diagnosis followed — leukemia.

Charlie stayed by her side through everything. He drove her to every appointment, held her when the nausea hit, and read her favorite poems when she couldn’t sleep.

“I never got flowers from anyone,” she whispered one night, weak but smiling.

Charlie brushed her hair from her face. “You get them every day now,” he said. “They’re yours, Andy. Always were.”

Months later, the shop was quiet again — too quiet. The bell above the door no longer rang with laughter.

At the cemetery, the sky was grey, the air cool and still. Charlie stood before her grave, holding a bouquet of pink tulips — her favorite.

He knelt down and placed them gently, his hand lingering on the petals.

“Hi, love,” he whispered. “I brought you your tulips.”

A single tear slipped down his cheek and landed on the flowers.

He smiled through it, whispering, “Thank you for finding me.”

And for a brief moment, as the wind brushed past, it felt like she was there — smiling, the scent of tulips soft in the air.