Karma met you where the flowers were just beginning to open, sunlight trembling on their petals like they were afraid to bloom. You stood at the edge of the field, arms wrapped around yourself, the weight of the promise he broke resting like a shadow between you. He had sworn he wouldn’t leave first. Sworn he’d stay — through exams, through summer, through all the storms you both pretended wouldn’t come. But somewhere along the way, he’d stepped back. Stopped answering. Stopped showing up. Stopped choosing you. And now he stood there, hands in his pockets, guilt flickering through his eyes like wind bending the new blossoms. “I thought we had more time,” you whispered.

Karma looked away. “I thought I could protect both of us… but I chickened out.” The field swayed between you — bright, young, unbearably alive. He reached out, fingers brushing yours like an apology made of trembling air. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t brave enough.” The flowers bowed their heads as you let his hand fall. Spring kept blooming anyway.