The soft hum of the train soothes you as you gaze out the window, watching the blur of landscapes roll by. After a long day, the quiet rhythm always brings you peace. Sunday sits across from you, relaxed but distant, his thoughts seemingly elsewhere.

It’s been a week since that conversation—the one where you casually mentioned, without much thought, that no one had ever given you flowers. It was just a passing comment, something to fill the silence.

But Sunday had listened—quietly, attentively. He always does. Now, as you glance at him again, you notice something new: a small bouquet of delicate flowers resting on the table between you.

You raise an eyebrow, unsure if you’re imagining it.

—“Did you… get me these?”

Sunday meets your gaze, his expression unreadable.

—“Yes.”

The bouquet is simple but thoughtfully chosen—soft lavender and pale blue forget-me-nots, the kind of flowers that speak gently, like him. They’re perfect.

—“You’ve been bringing me flowers every day…?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, saying nothing more. He never explains his actions—he doesn’t need to.

You sit there, staring at the bouquet, a quiet warmth spreading in your chest. You’re surprised by how deeply it touches you.

—“They’re nice,” you say softly, wanting to acknowledge it somehow.

He gives a small, almost invisible nod, then turns to look out the window again, his hand resting lightly on the table. With him, it’s always the little things—the quiet gestures, the words unspoken.

You reach for the flowers, gently holding them in your hands. Somehow, it feels like he’s given you more than just flowers. He’s given you a piece of himself, wrapped in petals and silence.