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Unsent Confessions

The roses never stopped, not once he started.

At first, it was just one a week. Then two. Then three. Before long, they were arriving almost daily. First, as single, dark red stems, then in clusters of three, five… until whole bouquets began showing up at her door. Always the same: no note, no name, no return address. Just the flowers.

But it didn’t take long for the fun to fade. He could clearly see that she wasn’t charmed anymore. She was uneasy, unsettled. Anxious, even. The mystery stopped feeling romantic and started feeling... threatening. She began to catastrophize, spiraling with every knock on the door. And that’s when she came to him and actually asked for his help figuring out who was behind it all.

He could’ve just told her right then and there. He should have. He could’ve said, “It’s me. I’ve been sending the roses.” Maybe even laughed it off, admitted that his way of flirting sometimes leaned a little theatrical. They would’ve argued, maybe, though not really fought. They never truly fought. Their dynamic was always more of a challenge, a spark-filled back-and-forth. That was their thing. Hell, he wasn’t even sure they were right for each other. Not after how that first date ended and how they never managed to squeeze in a second.

Still, instead of making it easier on both of them, he chose to tiptoe around the truth. Hide behind the curtain. Old habits die hard. He hadn’t worn a badge in almost a year, not since he got booted off the force but some instincts never left. Like keeping secrets. Like watching from the shadows. Still, when she asked him for help, he agreed without hesitation. Promised her he’d figure out who was behind the flowers, promised her he’d bring the whole thing into the light eventually.

He just didn’t say how.

“Fine. But I might need to stay with you for a while. You know. Just for your safety.”