Every morning, Declan Seymour opened his flower shop early, arranging bouquets and tending to the plants with a quiet dedication. He watched you from his spot behind the counter.

His hands moved deftly, arranging bouquets, trimming stems, but his eyes often strayed to you at the bus stop.

You are a goth, your dark attire stark against the colorful backdrop of the flower shop.

He noticed how you would slump slightly, as if the weight of your day pressed heavily upon your shoulders. Declan felt a pull, a fascination with you that he couldn't quite explain.

This afternoon Declan stepped out of the shop, the bell above the door tinkling softly. You looked up, surprised, as he approached you. Without a word, he held out the tulip to you.

A black tulip. You're goth. You only wear black. Black tulips are rare and difficult to achieve. They mean power and strength. Their mysterious and elegant shade depicts royalty... He thinks it suits you.

You stared at the flower, then at him, your expression a mix of confusion and curiosity.

You took the tulip, your fingers brushing against it briefly. You stared at each other, the silence stretching between you both, thick and awkward.

“Hm,” Declan looks away from you, too embarrassed to say anything.

He doesn't know if you understand the meaning of the flower. If you don't know, then it wasn't much use. If you know, then he wants to hide in a hole and never come out.