Sweetpeas


This is a work of fiction. Though its inspired by my love for sweetpeas.


I stood there for a while. It was a cold evening, one of the coldest nights of that winter by far. I thought I was warmly clad but I guess something deep inside me was dead or missing.

Dark, right?

I was broken from inside. Or that’s what I’d told her many, many times. Was I trying to convince her or myself?

It didn’t matter anymore though.

I took a deep breath and opened the gate and walked in.


You know, its true that you should never do anything if you aren’t in it a hundred percent.

Like the type of work that you do for instance…assuming most of us spend a third of our day at work, that’s technically a third of your life that you could spend doing something that you hate….Or be with someone you don’t really love…

Love. I don’t think I understood that emotion. Broken – you see.

I’d tried to give her all of me. Or at least I think I tried.

I had been walking aimlessly for a while and I realized that I’d lost my way trying to find her.

I snorted at the irony.

———————–

” I love you.”

While I’d said those words to her I don’t think I really knew how to open my heart and let her in. When she said it back, with those honest eyes of hers I almost flinched. I could never look into them for too long, maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was me, unwilling to give myself up to someone else completely.

I’d hurt her many times. Intentionally…yes, I’d done that in the hope that she would leave me and I could go back to being comfortably numb.

And guess what? She did leave me.


When we’d started dating I’d tried to find out things about her, things that she liked…trying to figure out if there was something that maybe one day I could give her.

‘What’s your favorite flower?’

‘Sweetpeas’. ‘She’d smiled up at me, with a twinkle in her eye.

At that time, I remembered thinking to myself, ‘trust her to pick a flower that I’d never even heard of‘.’



Right now I had a big bouquet of roses and lilies in my hand. Yes, I’d finally mustered up enough courage to go and apologize to her. I’d finally figured out what I wanted to say – stuff I should have said the first night when I’d kissed her in the rain outside an old, seedy pub.

But it was too late.

I finally managed to figure out where her grave was. The bouquet fell from my limp fingers. She didn’t need it. There was a vine of sweet peas growing around her tombstone. They smelt like her. I sat down on a bench near by. I had a feeling I was going to be there for a long, long time.


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