The Language Of Flowers – Love Story

My day crumbles the moment the bouquet lands on my desk.

“For Connor.” 

Eyes lowering, my gaze lands on the small bouquet of pink flowers. After another pause, I slowly wrap my hands around the bulk of the emerald stalk and repress the urge to take a deep whiff of the rich, sweet smell of bubblegum pink. 

“Thanks, I’ll let him know,” I say, and only when the last loose threads of the delivery man’s decaying uniform exit the familiar double doors do I release the silent sigh as my eyes fall back to the new mass upon my desk.

Pink flowers. For Connor. 

And as routine as sitting down at this desk every morning and staring at the same double doors all day, I scoop up the bouquet and stand from my desk, twisting my heel and heading deeper into the office on a path just as familiar. Who could’ve sent these to him? Why would they send these to him?

And why does it have to be him?

As my feet turn the corner, my eyes find him immediately, just like how quickly they decoded who these flowers were for the instant the delivery man entered those doors at precisely four PM. His dark-rimmed glasses are perched upon his mop of hazelnut hair, chestnut eyes staring down his computer screen, fingers dancing on his keyboard. What is he writing? A message to his boss? An important email? A love letter? 

One more glance at the tangle of pink in my hands makes me bite my lip—it’s probably the latter. 

“Connor,” I say when I finally arrive at his cubicle. His gaze swivels up to meet mine, wide and inquisitive, before falling to the bouquet in my grip. 

“Oh, Mellia!” he exclaims. Recognition seeps into those creamy irises again as he peers back up at me, eyes widening just the slightest. “You’ve got flowers.”

I drop my gaze, extending the bouquet towards him. “You mean you got flowers? These were sent to you.” 

He sits frozen in his chair as silence hangs over us. Five seconds. Ten seconds. He probably hasn’t been sent flowers before, and the more I realize that today he has, the more my teeth grind against my inner cheek.

Another pause. “Are you sure they’re for me?”

And I can only stare back at him in bewilderment at his question. What sort of question is that? He’s staring at me again with such profound curiosity as if seeing something intriguing, despite the fact I’ve delivered these to him in this same manner like every other package, even though we’ve been coworkers at the same accounting firm for the past two years, despite the fact I thought we’re our closest friends, even though I hate the color pink, despite the fact I thought he felt something for me considering all the times we laughed, joked, and chugged coffee together…

…and despite the fact that I really, really like him. 

But gazing at his poignant face, the soft yet defined curvature of his jawbone, the boundless toffee of his eyes, and these flowers in my hands, I know there is no way he likes me back. We’re both well into our thirties, and someone like him clearly has a significant other sending him flowers, regardless of the fact that I don’t. 

So I just smile and say, “Yes, they’re addressed to your name.” I place the bouquet on his desk. “It’s a nice gift.” And before I can stay and torture myself any longer, I twist around, ready to head back—

“Wait.” 

And routine is promptly broken as a large hand closes snugly over my wrist. Usually, I’d leave quietly with him and his flowers in silence, but today, I find myself whirling around, thoroughly alarmed by the plot twist. Thankfully, my gasp is quiet enough not to disturb the peace of our surrounding colleagues, each nestled deep within their bubble of responsibilities, something I have abandoned long ago ever since those flowers landed on my desk.

“Mellia,” Connor says my name again, snatching my attention. He blinks up at me, hand still wound around my wrist and flowers perched idly on his desk. “…You’re coming to the company dinner tonight like we promised, right?” 

I bite my lip. “Huh? Oh, actually…I don’t know anymore.” All of a sudden, company dinners and dressing up sounds like a hassle…

His grip tightens just the slightest around my wrist. “Why not? You should go.” 

Sighing, I look away. “No big reason. I don’t think our boss needs us there.”

Another long pause drifts over us. “But what about me?” Connor finally says, causing me to glance at him, and I nearly flinch when I realize he’s standing now, staring at me at eye level yet with his hand still around my wrist. Fluidly, he drops his hand into mine, intertwining our pinky fingers. “You promised,” he points out, lifting his gaze. “So our boss might not need you there but…” He tilts his head. “…I do.”

~.~.~

Where is he? 

That’s the first question I ask myself when I step into the lavish and flourishing ballroom. People—coworkers, stakeholders, managers, supervisors alike—in gaudy suits, fancy ties, and frilly dresses mill around me, and seeing them only reminds me to discreetly adjust the hem of my deep midnight blue dress. While my hair has always been in its typical receptionist bun, it now hangs in loose, wavy curls. I even donated some of my time and patience tonight to lather on some lipstick and mascara, hoping that I won’t be the most underdressed tonight. 

‘…I do.’

My grip tightens around my glass of punch, brows furrowing. His voice has been echoing in my mind all night, but I’m unable to look for him as the strap of my sandal wedges digs uncomfortably into the back of my heel. Unable to ignore the dull ache, I begin scanning the room for an uninhabited chair, and I see one at exactly the same time I see someone else. 

My eyes lift. He’s right there, merely a few tables away, talking to another person.

“Connor!” My feet instinctively move on their own, forgetting about the awkward positioning of my shoe straps. A gasp shoots out of my mouth, ensnaring the attention of those around me as I pitch forward, ankle buckling under the sharp pain. “Mellia!” I hear a distant call, but I have already collapsed onto the ground. Before anyone can help me up, I spring onto my feet, hastily smoothing down my navy dress and bearing through the pain in my feet as my face explodes into heat. “I’m okay, I’m okay,” I assure various concerned people, and while they soon thankfully drop the deal, two people don’t.

“Mellia, you good?” Connor asks me as I finally sit in my chair and adjust the strap of my shoe. Peering up, I hope my face isn’t too red as I sputter, “Yeah, I’m good—”

I see the person next to him, a woman I don’t recognize. She is beautiful, with rich brown hair and a flattering black dress, and she is also peering at me with concern, her thin eyebrows creased together with worry. Embarrassed, I drop my gaze, only for it to land on Connor’s hand where that same bouquet of pink flowers was clasped in. 

I freeze, my heart fracturing. So he does have a significant other, someone who works here too it seems. I guess it makes sense why the flowers were delivered to the office…

“Mellia—”

“I’m fine, I swear.” I pick myself up, my shoes finally comfortable enough for me to twist around from them before he can see me hyperventilate any further. Quickly, I pick up my pace, only wishing to get outside and collect myself. This is definitely not how I envisioned the start of the dinner to be like.

“Mellia!” 

My feet quicken, finally bringing me outside into the cool evening air on the empty patio of the venue, but even I know these wretched shoes can only get me so far as Connor’s hand catches mine once more, exactly like earlier today in the office. 

I spin around, trying to keep my emotions from boiling over. “Connor, I’m sorry,” I say, meeting his gaze before glancing at the flowers still in his other hand. “I’m sorry for overreacting, but can I please just have some time to myself?” 

Connor is quiet, his eyes large and flicking around my face as if analyzing me to the very bone. “Mellia, what’s wrong? You’ve been acting strange since earlier today.” He grows quiet. “And…you look different tonight.’

I bite my lip, eyes not leaving the flowers. “It’s the makeup. And really, there’s nothing you need to know.” Definitely not. He doesn’t need to hear my confession any longer now that I know I don’t have a place in his heart.

“Mellia, we both  know that’s not true—”

“Fine, it’s not!” I blurt, finally returning his gaze. “I’m sorry Connor, I know it’s childish, I know we’re all adults. But…” I press my lips together, hating this. “…those flowers. You have someone special, don’t you? Back in the ballroom?” 

Connor remains silent for the next few moments, his gaze never leaving mine, that same look of attentiveness palpable on his face. 

“Mellia…,” he says slowly, gaze softening as he takes a step closer to me. “You’re right. I do have someone special. And she is here tonight.” He falters, peering down at the bouquet in his hand. 

“And? Why are you doing this then?” I swallow, refusing to let my emotions control me. “I’m happy for you, really. You should go back to her then.”

“I’m already here.”

“Huh?”

“Because that someone is you, Mellia.”

My words die in my throat. …What?

Tucking a hand into his slacks, he lifts his other hand with the bouquet of pink flowers towards me, that familiar smile of his back on his face. “These flowers are actually for you.” 

I can only stare in pure silence at the soft, delicate petals. What…what is he talking about? This doesn’t make any sense…

Connor chuckles quietly, giving me another warm smile. “I sent these flowers just for you. Back at the office.” He shakes his head with another chuckle. “But it seems like the sender and recipient were mixed up so they were delivered to me so I can deliver them to you. This was really meant for you.”

“Connor…”

He shrugs. “So I wanted to get them to the right person tonight.” He juts out the bouquet again. “To you.”

And again, I can only stare in silence, tears finally threatening to spill, pushing against the back of my eyes, and so I only have the strength to say, “But…but I hate pink.”

Laughing, he finally reaches forward and scoops me into another hug, breath tickling my ear. “Of course, I know that,” he murmurs. “But these flowers are special.” He pulls back, eyes shining with mirth and gleaming under the moonlight. “They’re pink camellias, Mellia.”

My heart jumps. Oh…like my name…

Plucking one from the bouquet, Connor reaches up and gently slips its stem behind my ear before tucking my hair too. “And do you know what they symbolize? What does the language of flowers say?”

No matter how hard I try, I can’t peel my gaze away. “Connor…”

“Longing. Yearning.” He grins at me. “I’ve been longing for you for a long time, Mellia. I wanted to tell you today, but…didn’t expect that mix-up at the office.”

            “Connor…” The whole time I have been saying his name and nothing else, and frankly, I’m unable to say anything else even though a million thoughts are running through my mind. A cool breeze ripples over me in the night air, causing me to shiver, and Connor reels me into another embrace. 

“You look amazing tonight, Mellia,” he whispers, and I shiver instinctively, dissolving into him. “Your dress…a deep hydrangea blue. A flower that symbolizes unity and togetherness. And I don’t know what other man is in your life, but…I wish to be the one for you. The one that completes you.”

He pulls away again, and the next time we lock gazes, I know it’s different. I know there is an unspoken question, and an answer I’m obligated to give. Feeling the velvety petals of the pink camellia brushing against my ear just like his breath, I realize that I was mistaken from the very beginning. 

And so, with all misunderstandings cleared into the wind of the night sky like the bouquet of camellias, I pull him in close. He may have given me camellias and said that he longed for me, but peering into the bottomless expanse of his caramel irises, I realize he deserves camellias from me too, since there are just so many parts of him that I longed for. And because I don’t have anything to give, this is the best I can offer him, the rich chocolate of his eyes lowering to my lips. When he kisses me then, I know that I have finally invited him into a part of me I thought I’d never be able to reveal.

I may not be a camellia myself, but my name is Mellia. 

“I love you, Mellia.”

And I will metamorphosize from a camellia into a hydrangea.   

“I love you too, Connor.”

To become one with him. Together.