There are flower petals scattered on the bedside table- daisies and chrysanthemums and a single red rose this time. They always vary because Jongdae thinks routine is boring and he likes to surprise you with a new bunch every week. You let them sit until the petals begin to fall, the scent of the drying flowers filling your room with the constant reminder of Kim Jongdae and his love for you- which, in turn, is a reminder of your love for him.
    "They're not much," he's told you over and over, "but if you see them every day, you'll think of me." And you do. Every morning when you wake up and every night when you go to sleep. It's a relief, really, because touring and working takes his physical being out of your reach every day and sometimes, you just don't know how to hold on. That is, until you see the flowers perched on the bedside table. They bring you comfort like no other and each time you look at them, you're reminded of Jongdae's curly smile.
    Tonight in particular is one of the nights that make you feel so alone. You haven't seen him in over a week and he's been too busy to replace the flowers or send someone to do the favor for him. The petals drop slowly but surely and you let them because until Jongdae comes home again, this is what you have. The once velvety petals of the red rose shrivel and depart from their center and you watch them fall as you lay in bed, waiting for him.
 

    Somewhere in the peaceful moments between being awake and being unconscious, you notice the smell of fresh lavender and it pulls you gently towards consciousness. There is a rustle of plastic and the sweet hum of a familiar voice that makes you smile. Jongdae is home. You open your eyes to bright sunlight and Jongdae's smile, which is even brighter.
     "Good morning," he says, and without another word, he drops the plastic wrapping of the flowers into the wastebasket and climbs onto the bed next to you. His arms slide around your waist and you nuzzle into his chest affectionately.
    "Day off?" you ask, breaking the silence.
    "Mmhmm," he replies. And that's that. 
    He your hair with gentle fingers as you breathe him in. "You smell good," you murmur absently. The sound of his laughter fills the empty space around you and all the cracks in between.
    "I got hit with a bouquet of flowers earlier." You shift and look up at him to see that he's totally serious.
    "Crazy fans?" you ask. It's a logical explanation.
    "No," he shakes his head, smiling, "the old lady who runs the flower shop said she had the perfect bunch for me to bring to you, but I was too late and someone else bought them. She threw those at me saying they were the second best she had." Turning, you smile at the bunch of snapdragons and lavender and other brightly-colored flowers.
    "They're beautiful."
    "You say that every week," he says, almost shy.
    "Because they are," you insist, grabbing his hand and lacing your fingers through his.
     He squeezes your hand gently. "But they're not as beautiful as you."