The lavender bouquet from Provence lay still on the wooden table by the window, the late afternoon sun spilling over it, tinting the whole room purple.
I’m twenty-seven, living in a city without gentle summers, without winds carrying the scent of open fields. Just streets heavy with smoke, and long days where I sometimes ask myself: where am I running to, and for whom?
The lavender arrived one May morning, in a simple paper box, with a short note inside:
“So you won’t forget the season in Provence.”
No signature.
But I knew it was him.
Him — the man who left three years ago, taking with him a promise that was never spoken again. When we were together, he used to say, “If one day you grow tired, find the scent of lavender. It’s the fragrance of gentleness that knows how to stand back up.”
Back then, I laughed and told him he was too romantic. Now, I understand — some words only truly echo when the one who said them is gone.
I lift the lavender bouquet, touch the brittle petals, and hear a faint crackle — like memories splitting open. The scent seeps through, carrying me back to the violet fields of southern France, where he once held my hand as we ran through the wind, laughing, as he promised: “If there’s another life, I’ll still choose you — maybe in a different place, a little sooner this time.”
I used to hate him for leaving. But at twenty-seven, I no longer want to hate anyone. I just want to keep the beautiful things — like this lavender bouquet. It’s no longer fresh, but the scent remains. Just like love — it doesn’t need to stay dazzling, only gentle when remembered.
I place the bouquet back where it was and open the window. The wind rushes in, carrying the faint purple scent away.
I smile.
Perhaps, somewhere out there, he’s breathing it in too.
