Her

There is something intrinsically beautiful about dried flowers. Like photographs. They remind us of some beauty we once experienced, the memory of which still lingers, like the musty fragrance of a dried petal.

Which is why she never had the soul to throw away the flowers she received. She liked to preserve them, leave them, scattered in through the intermittent pages of books. So that someday, she turns a page, and is unexpectedly faced with a yesterday.

She said she hated it when people got her flowers. Perhaps, it was the burden of that carefully preserved memory that tired her. Perhaps, she lied. Perhaps, this ping-pong game of today and yesterday is what kept her locked in her own head. Perhaps, she just didn't want what she thought she wanted.