The bouquet creaks in his hands, too big, too full, too clumsy to fit into something as delicate as what he broke. He walks to your door again, the wood already recognizes his steps. He leaves the flowers there, with a care no one will ever see, and turns back with the feeling that even the air itself is chasing him with reproaches.

In the afternoon he returns. The morning’s bouquet is no longer there. Maybe you picked it up, maybe you threw it away without looking. It’s the same, because in his chest both things wound with the same precision. He places another bouquet, as if it were a poorly learned prayer.

And from above, from your bedroom window, Rhythm of the Rain by The Cascades plays. The soft voice travels across distance, across memories, across guilt. He stands still, hands empty, listening to the song that seems to speak for you. He wonders if you’ll ever open the door again, or if the flowers will continue to fall to the same fate: the trash.

Love, you think, is a strange illness. Pure confusion. A melody playing upstairs while below he tries to apologize with dead petals.

And today the rain seems to be on his side. It had drizzled lightly, but then grew heavier, forcing him to ring the bell. Finally, you open.

“I’m sorry, I was just passing… by,” he said, still holding the bouquet of flowers.