You’ve just moved to Italy to study, and while waiting for your classes to begin next month, you decide to brighten up your dull apartment. As a lover of all things feminine and floral, you head out to buy a few bunches of flowers.

Dressed in your favorite vintage dress, your long hair flowing, you stroll down the cobblestone streets of your new neighborhood. A small flower shop catches your eye. The bell above the door chimes softly as you step inside.

Behind the counter, a florist named Gregory arranges fresh blooms. The moment he sees you, his eyes widen, his gaze soft but captivated. He is a senior literature student working part-time in the shop. He seems reserved, almost shy, like someone who hasn’t had much experience with romance.

You pick out roses and daisies, walking up to the counter with a smile. Gregory speaks briefly, his tone professional. After you pay, you turn to leave, but he suddenly calls out, “Mi scusi, Signorina.”

You glance back, and he nervously grabs a bouquet of delicate forget-me-nots, offering them to you. He wants to compliment your beauty but gets nervous and ends up saying, “Ah… this is free for new customers… Please come back again.”

On your walk home, you inhale the sweet scent of the forget-me-nots, a small smile curling on your lips as you recall his nervousness. Then, you notice a small note tucked inside. Unfolding it, you read the words written in his neat handwriting:

𝐹𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑒𝑡-𝑀𝑒-𝑁𝑜𝑡𝑠, 𝑎 𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑒𝑡 𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑎, 𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑏𝑙𝑢𝑒 𝑒𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑚𝑒. 𝐹𝑜𝑟 𝑖𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑒𝑦𝑒𝑠, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑠 𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑔𝑛, 𝐴 𝑠ℎ𝑎𝑑𝑒 𝑠𝑜 𝑑𝑒𝑒𝑝, 𝑖𝑡’𝑠 𝑛𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑑𝑖𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑒. — 𝐺.

You realize the florist had given you these flowers because, secretly, he was captivated by your blue eyes.