It started with the aster placed on your doorstep.

A beautiful flower, really, with long, pale lavender petals that crowded around a sunny yellow center. The stem was neatly cut and the leaves fanned in a perfect array, every petal still intact despite having rested on your doorstep for God knows how long. It was a sweet gesture. But, to be honest, it was a little disconcerting when you had no clue how it got there.

It was too precise to be accidental, and there was no specific note attached. If it was supposed to be some sort of present it sure didn’t look like one. You run through a mental checklist in your head, trying to think of anyone who it could’ve been, but you draw a complete blank.

You try calling your parents and your sister, but none of them admit to giving you the flower.

“Maybe you have a secret admirer! That’s so cute!” Your mother says.

“Do you need me to come and investigate? You might be being stalked,” your father offers.

“Who cares, if it’s pretty, you should keep it!” Your sister insists.

They aren’t much of a help.

You dismiss the flower until another appears.

This time, it’s a branch of honeysuckle. Its sweet scent sends a pang of nostalgia flitting through your thoughts the moment you pick it up. You remember plucking the little pale yellow flowers off the branches and searching them for a drop of nectar. It was a childhood game you used to play with your friends, running around and searching for flowers and braiding them into your hair.

However, though there’s a new flower, there’s still no note. No letter, no reason, and certainly no one with a notion to give it to you. You try calling your best friend this time, but he offers little help as well.

“Maybe someone just wanted to brighten up your day,” he says quietly. His voice sounds far away and distracted.

You purse your lips and run your thumb over the receiver. “Hoya, you know that I don’t know anyone who would want to do that. I never get flowers, not unless I’ve done some sort of monumental achievement.”

He chuckles softly. “You know, my mom used to say that flowers had their own language. Every single one had a different symbolism or meaning. That’s why my dad always gave her red carnations. They mean love or passion.”

You roll your eyes. “Come on, no one is inlove with me.”

“You never know,” he answers wistfully.

You brush off his words. If anything, the flowers were just nice gifts. But the next delivery is different.

You find a bundle of crimson roses and bright red tulips knotted together resting against your front steps. You finger the petals gently and smile. You had always loved tulips especially.

You glance out into your empty front yard, the sidewalk bare save for a few people riding by on bikes or walking on their way to work. You frown slightly. There was never anyone there, never a clue to who might be leaving those flowers behind.

What would it take to find out who was behind this?

It’s not until the bouquet of lilac and primrose shows up that you finally decide to take Hoya’s advice.

You feel ridiculous asking the librarian for a book titled Know Your Flowers but it’s all worth it in the end when you crack it open in the most vacant section of the library.

Aster: Symbol of love, daintiness, talisman of love, trusting

Honeysuckle:Devoted affection, bonds of love

Rose: True love

Tulip: Declaration of love

Lilac: first emotion of love

Primrose:Eternal love

You notice the trend immediately and your conversation with Hoya flashes through your mind.

“Come on, no one is in love with me.”

“You never know.”

It hits you.

You find Hoya after your long search is finally rewarded. You tap him lightly on the shoulder and tuck your arms securely behind your back. He turns in surprise, a warm smile lighting up on his face as he calls your name.

You out your hand with a crimson blush and he glances down. His gaze falls on the flower clutched in your fingertips and his eyes question you. “Wha…what’s this?”

“Ambrosia,” you answer with a warm smile. “Reciprocated love.”