She loved those flowers in their full bloom. They seemed to glisten in the sun and glow under the moonlight. She felt like dying as she watched each petal darken and slowly wilt. Like a selfish little child, she wanted them beautiful forever. She remembered changing the water three times a day, making sure it was ice cold. She had read somewhere that flowers survived longer in cold water.  But no matter what she did, no matter how hard she tried, one by one the petals drooped and soon the flowers hung limply from each stem. Not long after the stem itself shrivelled and the water started to smell. It was putrid and the foul smell hung in air even after she changed the water.

It took two weeks, one day, 12 hours, fifteen minutes and fourteen seconds for the flowers to fade into that dark, limp and foul smelling lifeless bundle. It was ridiculous to feel remorse for something so simple and so natural. Wasn’t it only natural for flowers to fade and die no matter how beautiful they had been? But like a mother who lost her only child in childbirth, she felt betrayed; her hollow womb yearning for the warmth of the life so cruelly deprived of her.

Did she think too much of it? Was she being overly sentimental and blowing things out of proportion again just like he said? She should have kept it to herself, she thought. Now he thinks she’s being dramatic.

She searched his face for that amused smile that seemed to glow and bathe her with a brilliance that warmed her cheeks. No one smiled to her like that. Her jokes had always been flat and humourless, only he laughed with so much gusto at her fireman joke. Well, him and her when she thought of it in the privacy of her bedroom. 

She met him one cold night at a friend’s party. Since then, they seemed to bump into each other on nights when cold mist form unusual shapes and hang in the air as they try to remember each other’s names. She had always been faceless in a crowd but he kept on saying that he clearly remembered her; the blue cardigan and the emerald green crystal earrings she wore that night in the karaoke room. It didn’t matter that she didn’t own a blue cardigan or that she didn’t like green, much less wore earrings of the said colour.  What mattered was that he tried so hard to charm her even when he was already shivering in the cold. No one ever tried to charm her.

In many ways, he was her first. It really didn’t matter that he was her first boyfriend or that he was the first man to ask her out on a date or that he was the first to have held her hand. Pathetic as it may sound, what really mattered was that he was the first man who saw her when she was already almost convinced that she was invisible.

It took two weeks, one day, 12 hours, fifteen minutes and fourteen seconds for the chrysanthemums to fade into that dark, limp and foul smelling lifeless bundle and she saw it unfold before her eyes. She knew it was inevitable, she knew flowers die eventually, she didn’t need any telling. She didn’t need anyone to tell her that love doesn’t always last either. But still she wished someone told her anyway.

She loved looking into his eyes when he talked about his job and about his co-worker who farted whenever she laughed too hard. His life always seemed fun and exciting when they talked; she wished she could share every moment of it with him. And yet since when had he started to frown when she talked about her dream of being an ornithologist? Were his hands always this cold when she held them? Did he just smirk at her re-edited version of the fireman joke? Come to think of it, when was the last time he laughed at her jokes? When did her jokes become flat and humourless again?

She called him one winter night to invite him for a drink but he said he was out with friends. Two days after he was out with his boss. The next week, he was out of coverage area. The day after, the call dropped. That night a mysterious, foul smell aded her whole room. It strongly reminded her of rotting chrysanthemums.

It was ridiculous to feel remorse for something so simple and so natural. Wasn’t it only natural for flowers to fade and die no matter how beautiful they had been? Wasn’t it natural for love to bloom at one time and then fade when feelings start to dissipate?

No, she doesn’t really believe that love is an illusion. She wasn’t bitter about it. Love isn’t an illusion. Romance is.

She loved him for loving her and she was happy for those moments when she basked in the brilliance of the romance they shared no matter how abruptly abandoned. It was the natural order of things and she accepted it.

And yet why did she feel like a mother who lost her only child in childbirth, why did she feel so betrayed? Why did her arms suddenly lose its warmth as she embraced herself like she had always done even before he came into her life? She had lived half of her life alone before he came and yet why couldn’t she bear the thought of it now?

Tears trailed down her cheeks as she stared at the brilliant white chrysanthemums sitting on her bedside table. They’re her favourite flowers now. People cast weird curious look at her on the street everyday as she carries a fresh bundle. The florist at the shop she always buys from seemed happy at first for his new patron but soon found it disturbingly unusual that she bought new ones everyday.

How often does one offer white chrysanthemums to the dead anyway? She always bought fresh ones because she couldn’t bear watching them wilt. If only people could understand this, if only they could see the ghost of that first dozen of white chrysanthemums she received last Valentine’s Day. She carried them every day, invisible and rotten, a memento for a romance long forlorn and the man she shared it with.