Bloom

By Vrishti Savalani

My eyes were fixated on the vase with lilies that had fully bloomed. I didn’t realize how much I hated flowers until that moment. Each petal looked so clean and crisp. Droplets of water sat on the surface like little bubbles nestled on the ground before they pop and leave a ring to remind the Earth of what used to be there. You reminded me of a bubble.

On our very first date you bought me flowers that looked just like those. They sat in the cup holder of your car in a blue vase because I told you that was my favorite color. You parked in the sketchy lot outside my building while I was still getting ready. I nearly clipped my eyelid with the eyelash curler as I peeked through the blinds to look out the window by my bedroom. You were parked between a man smoking weed out of his car and a patch of vomit that occupied that other spot. When I came out you pulled the car forward so I wouldn’t have to walk around the puke, and you opened the door for me to get in. It was such a simple gesture, but something I’d never experienced before. It almost felt wrong.

When we got to the cute Parisian café, you also offered to pull the chair out for me to sit, but for some reason I drew the line there. I didn’t trust that your chivalry didn’t come with conditions. Just because my hands never touched a door or seat, didn’t mean I owed you something at the end of the night. Between the bites, there was a lot of silence—awkward glances, mostly from you looking at me, but I couldn’t bring myself to hold that eye contact because I couldn’t quite figure out if you were genuine or not. If your warm brown eyes were like a calming fireplace that I could curl up and find comfort in, or if I’d be burned and have to walk around with the scars of something I knew very well I shouldn’t touch. That night when you dropped me off back home, the flowers sat in that cup holder between the two of us but that didn’t stop you from leaning towards me and planting that kiss that grew. I wouldn’t say it was a magical kiss. At one point it felt like your lips were consuming the lower half of my face, but everything else about you was soft. Your hands were gently resting on my back, sliding up and down. It almost seemed like you were trying to map out all the parts of my body, but it never felt like you crossed a line. I’d had men put their hands on me and all I’d felt was the burn from inside like an alarm that went off on my nerves telling me to back away from a situation, but I could never bring myself to do that. Instead, you made me feel like I was being held rather than pulled into something I couldn’t get out of.

That blue vase sat on my kitchen counter for the rest of the summer. Even after the flowers died in the excruciating heat, I replaced them with the cheapest bouquet I could find at the store knowing very well they wouldn’t last more than three days in the summer heat.

The first night you came over, we made dinner together. I lit a candle on the counter right next to the vase. The flowers obviously changed. The lilies were replaced with roses instead. I found a bouquet at the store that resembled the summer sunset—burning orange at the bottom of the petals but as you moved out it was lined with a soft pink. While the chicken was marinating and the sauce was bubbling, you and I stood in the middle of the living room just holding each other. That was it. You and I standing between the warm smell of vanilla and bourbon that was released from the burning wick, and the soft music playing in the background. My feet were cramping up from standing on my tip toes, so I leaned on you a little more, and all that did was make you embrace me even tighter. I felt safe.

I wanted to do the same for you. I really did try.

When you first told me about how much you were struggling, I wanted to help. I didn’t want you to feel like you were alone, and I’m sure you knew you weren’t. But you were someone that liked being alone, and I didn’t know how to help you. Maybe it wasn’t my job to help you. Maybe all I needed to do was to be there. And maybe that’s why I pushed even harder when you tried to step away—I wanted you to know I was there, but that led me to feel like I wasn’t enough.

When I think about that time for us, I think about that one day, maybe three months in, when things started to feel wrong. I came back home from work a flustered mess. It was raining and everything looked gray even though it was a Wednesday afternoon in the summer. We were supposed to meet up for a late lunch, but you decided at the last minute that you weren’t feeling good.

“I don’t want you to see me like this,” you said over the phone. “I’m in such a crappy state, that I don’t feel like being around anyone.” As much as I understood that you didn’t want to be around people, the word that stung the most was ‘anyone’. I didn’t want to be just ‘anyone’. I wanted you to know that I didn’t see you as just anyone either.

“Well, I want you to know that I’m here for you either way. But if you still want to be on your own, I completely get that.” I lied. I didn’t want you to be alone. I wanted to be there for you even when you felt like your demons were attacking you. It seemed easier to face them for you rather than to let you face them on your own. I didn’t like not knowing. Not knowing exactly what you were going through and what it is you were struggling with. You couldn’t even put the words together to make it make sense for yourself, so how could I expect you to explain it for me. There was some kind of pride I felt in myself when I knew I was of service to you. When I knew I was helping and making your life even the slightest bit better. But that wasn’t something you could accept. More importantly, that wasn’t something I should’ve expected you to accept. You eventually decided to come over, but there was a tension between us that had never been there before that day. The two of us were sitting on the couch with the takeout you brought. I was leaning on your shoulder and your arm wrapped around me like always. Even though there wasn’t an inch of distance between us I felt like you were further away from me than you’d been the whole time we were together. The whole room looked gray, and it wasn’t just from the overcast outside and the fact that my apartment relied solely on the natural sunlight that came through the balcony doors. I couldn’t tell if it came from my insecurities—the fear of not being wanted and that you’d had enough of me. Or if it came from your struggles—not being able to articulate what you were going through. I chose to blame myself and that led me to push even more.

A few weeks later I was in the same boat. I was burnt out from work. I felt like I was being pulled in a every single direction and was driven by my fear of failing. We were short staffed, so I kept stepping in which meant you and I weren’t spending as much time together. I found myself trying to fill in more spots that I could manage and I fell. Without even thinking I reached for the phone and called you up.

“Hey, I know your busy, but I’m not feeling too great. I don’t want to do anything, we don’t even have to talk, but I would just like for you to be here because I don’t trust myself to be alone now.” Without any hesitation you came over. If I could go back in time and change anything about that moment, I wouldn’t have called you. I wouldn’t have made my problems yours and would’ve taken care of it myself.

About a month later came my birthday. You were out of town on a business trip, but I found a bouquet of flowers delivered to my doorstep—blue orchids. They looked kind of bare in the pot since it was just the one stem that sprouted out, but I figured the few petals that had bloomed make it look alive enough. We didn’t seen each other for the next few weeks. Our phone calls were sparse and even then, for the most part, were filled with silences. I could see the seconds adding up on my screen, and I would count with them because the words between us didn’t seem as interesting as the numbers. I spent those months trying to speak to you and trying to get through to you, but all you wanted to do was sit in your shell, and I was so angry because of it. I hated how much I second guessed myself and how much I thought I wasn’t doing enough for you. I really did try to help, but I didn’t realize how much I hurt you until I got the call from your mom two days ago.         There you were lying beside that bouquet of lilies. Seeing your body in that open casket was the most at peace I’d seen you in the last few months. Even though all the blood was drained from your skin you looked more alive than I’d ever seen you before. You were free. You set yourself free. After seeing you all I wanted to say was I’m sorry. I’m not sorry because of how much you suffered—your days being filled with moderate to severe headaches that the pain was second nature, almost like breathing. I’m not sorry that you had to step away from everyone in your life just to recharge. Isolating from your family, and even me at times, because being alone meant being at peace for you. I’m sorry because I never took the time to understand you. That all I did was try to save you and act like I knew better. Instead, all I did was push you further till you fell of the edge and I couldn’t save you anymore.