Spring blossoms followed her from country to country, as if the world was cheering her on. At first, she thought it was mere coincidence, until she began paying attention.
After a six-hour flight, Porsche had just arrived in Italy. She stretched and yawned, taking in the unfamiliar air. She wasn’t staying long anyway, this was only meant to be a brief escape from the version of herself she had left behind.
As she stood waiting for a taxi, a light tap on her shoulder startled her.
She turned.
A child stood there, holding out a small bundle of wildflowers.
“Per te,” the child said.
“For me?” Porsche asked, surprised. She understood just enough Italian from a manual she had skimmed during the flight.
The child nodded with bright and certain eyes.
“You look like someone who is becoming,” he added, his accent soft but steady.
Porsche let out a small scoff. “Becoming? What do you know about becoming, kid?”
The words came out harsher than she intended. She caught herself, quickly reaching into her purse and pulling out a bill.
“Thank you,” she said, handing it to him.
The child beamed and skipped away, leaving her standing there with flowers she didn’t ask for, and a sentence she couldn’t quite shake.
Porsche had left home without notice. She wasn’t up for her mother’s dramatic goodbyes nor did she want to give long explanations. All she left behind, on her nightstand, was a neatly folded note, and a plane ticket booked at an unreasonable hour.
She didn’t want to stay.
Her parents were already making hasty marriage arrangements. They spoke of it like it was a deadline she had to meet. But Porsche wanted something else, something undefined and bigger than settling down before she had even begun to live.
She knew her sudden departure would break her betrothed heart. But she couldn’t trade her happiness for his expectations. Staying would have meant saying yes to a life that didn’t feel like hers so leaving was easier. At least, that’s what she told herself.
When the taxi finally pulled into the hotel, Porsche stepped out and spun lightly, her fatigue momentarily forgotten.
Flowers lined the path to the entrance, bright, almost theatrical. The hotel itself stood tall and elegant, but it was the flowers that held her attention.
And suddenly, her mind drifted.
Japan.
Cherry blossoms in full bloom, soft pink petals clinging to the air. Fragile beauties. She had stood beneath them, suitcase still in hand, watching strangers pause just to look up and smile. Some, claiming the positive energy from the petals, the wind blew to the ground.
That day, the world felt gentle.
Then the Netherlands.
Endless fields of tulips stretched across the land like a painter had lost control of color, reds, yellows, violets spilling into each other. She had laughed there. Really laughed.
She hadn’t realized how long it had been since she last did.
Morocco came next.
That was when it stopped feeling random. Flowers found her everywhere, tucked into corners, spilling from windows, pressed into her hands by strangers. She had even been pulled into a flower festival she never planned to attend. By then, she had started to wonder.
“Maybe it’s just the season I chose,” she murmured to herself, trying to dismiss the thought.
But when she stepped into her hotel room, she paused.
Her bed was decorated with roses. Potted flowers filled the corners of the room. This time, she couldn’t brush it off.
She picked up the landline and dialed reception.
After two rings, someone answered.
“Umm… why are there so many flowers in my room? Is there something special going on?”
A brief pause.
“No, ma’am. It’s a special season, and you’re special. We hope you like it.” The line went dead.
Porsche slowly lowered the receiver.
At this point, it didn’t matter where she went, flowers found her. In a way, that made her think of Albert, her betrothed. He loved flowers. Said he understood them. He even owned a flower shop where he spent his days tending to things that bloomed.
Maybe that was the connection. Or maybe it was something else. Because now, wherever she went, something always bloomed and it felt too intentional to ignore. She felt like the world knew something she didn’t.
“You’re okay,” she whispered to herself, lying back on the bed. But the words felt like something she was still trying to believe.
One evening, seated alone in the hotel cafe, she pulled out her phone. She hadn’t called home since she left. Her fingers hovered over the screen before she finally pressed the button.
The line rang once.
Twice.
“Hello?”
She closed her eyes, a small, fragile smile forming as the familiar voice reached her.
“I think…” she began softly, “I’m starting to understand.”
“Understand what?” Her mother’s frantic voice echoed.
She opened her eyes and glanced out the window. A vine of bright flowers curled along the wall outside, glowing in the last light of the day.
“Why I had to leave,” she said. Then, after a pause, “And… why I’ll come back.”
For the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel lost. Just in bloom.
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