Roses. Tulips. Lilies. Orchids. Sunflowers. Each one is incredibly beautiful in its own right, but nothing in the small flower shop with the crimson door is as utterly gorgeous as the lady who stands behind the till.

Such astonishing beauty is written about in novels — the kind that steals a man’s breath before he realises it. The way your eyes sparkle when you smile, your golden-brown locks fall softly across your face, framing your features so delicately that I wonder if you were carved by angels themselves.

I wonder if you realise the depth of how truly breathtaking you are. Probably not. Ladies like you never do. From the moment I first saw you a month back, buying orchids for my grandmother, I knew I had to see you again.

It’s not just your looks, it’s your mere presence — a special kind of aura that draws you in and doesn’t let go. In the least odd way possible, I could watch you adjust bouquets, intently search for the perfect flowers for somebody and simply exist for hours.

You’re enchanting.

I find myself often thinking of any excuses I can to buy flowers — any excuse to see the lady who brings me to my knees just by existing. I don’t believe in love at first sight, but I do believe in fate, so to speak.

Somehow, I find excuses to buy flowers at least three times a week.

Seeing you three times a week is not enough. But I’ll take what I can get.

Another thing that differentiates you from any other person that I’ve met is the way you treat me like a person — like I’m a human being before I’m Prince Harry. That fills my chest with warmth.

But I am a prince. You’re a commoner. I shouldn’t be feeling these butterflies in my stomach every time I see you, or even think about you. I can’t help it. My family would be deeply disappointed if they knew about my longing for the pretty lady at the flower shop. I know I can never act on these feelings, but god, how I long to take you on a date. I often day dream, picturing us on a date. I’m not a prince in these dreams, I’m just a man who can freely act on these unfamiliar feelings you stir inside of me — not a prince, just a man.

I may not be able to express these feelings, but that doesn’t mean I can’t visit your shop just to see you.

I turn a corner, the crimson red door now in my eye sight and the now familiar fluttery feeling hits me like a secret I’ve been keeping too close to my chest. I push the door open, the bell rings making my presence known.

My gaze lands on you, your back turned as you intently wrap a bouquet in brown paper, tying it with twine. Your fingers move delicately and precisely.

I clear my throat gently. “Busy morning?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady despite the way my heart is hammering. You glance over your shoulder, a small, bright smile spreading across your face.