I didn't sleep well that night. Not out of guilt—just restlessness. That kind of pull, the kind I felt toward Rohan and Mira's story, doesn't let you drift off easily. It sticks like a half-remembered dream you can't shake loose.
The next morning, I returned to the florist shop. Not because I had a plan. I didn't. But it felt like the right place to start. The woman behind the counter—middle-aged, with kind eyes and hands that looked permanently dusted in pollen—remembered me from the day before.
"I'm sorry," I said. "This is a strange question, but... I saw that couple outside your shop. Rohan and Mira. Are they—?"
She gave me a look, curious but not suspicious. "They used to come in every other Sunday. Bought white lilies, always the same kind. Said it was her sister's favorite. I think she passed a few years ago."
I nodded, processing.
"I don't know the full story," she added, "but they were quiet people. The kind that make you feel something even when they're not saying much."
That stuck with me.
---
I started seeing traces of them after that. Not directly. But in the places they'd touched.
At the café down the street, I asked the barista—under the excuse of writing a piece on "small-town love"—and she remembered them too.
"They'd sit in the back corner," she said, pointing. "He'd always order black coffee, she liked cardamom tea. They weren't loud. Just... very still. Like they didn't need to fill silence."
The same table sat empty now, near the window with chipped paint. I sat there for a while, trying to picture them. Her fingers wrapped around the warm ceramic cup. Him, maybe sketching something in a notebook. I wondered how long it had been since they last sat here.
---
A week later, I finally saw Mira again. She was at the local library, thumbing through a shelf of poetry books. Thin scarf, tired eyes, no makeup. She moved like someone who was still carrying something heavy, but quietly.
I didn't speak to her. Just watched from a few shelves away.
She picked out a book—Rumi—and sat near the window. I watched as she read a few pages, then closed it suddenly, like the words hurt more than they healed. Her hand went to her mouth, her eyes watery. Then she stood up and left the book behind.
I waited until she was gone. Then I picked up the same copy.
There was a folded paper inside.
Not a note. Just a small pressed lily.
I didn't take it. I didn't need to.
That was the moment I knew: this wasn't just a fading relationship. This was grief and love tangled in something deeper. Something unfinished, but still alive.
I was no longer just observing.
I was in the middle of it now.