It was a regular Tuesday.
No occasion, no reason.
Just sunlight through the window and a quiet feeling that something soft was missing.
She passed a little flower stall on her walk home —
blush roses, baby’s breath, pale blue hydrangeas catching the light like tiny stars.
She paused.
Not for anyone else.
Not to gift.
Not to decorate.
But because something inside whispered:
“You deserve this joy, too.”
She picked the softest bunch, the one that looked like a poem in bloom.
Wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine — fragile, yet full of life.
Back home, she placed them in a glass jar by the window.
The sun caught the petals, and her heart caught something warm.
It wasn’t grand.
It wasn’t shared.
But it was hers.
A moment of unspoken self-love.
A reminder that happiness doesn’t always arrive with fanfare.
Sometimes, it’s a quiet bouquet you give to yourself — just because.
“Some days, joy is buying yourself flowers and letting them bloom where your heart lives.”
