LITERARY | I'll Get Myself Peonies

𝐈 𝐚𝐦 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈’𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐞𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐈 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐬. It’s not because of the cost, nor the extravagance, but because someone intended to give them something.

Everywhere I turn, flowers are everywhere: in market booths spanning across the entire street, in a lover’s hands clasped tightly around a bouquet, in the advertisement posts on social media, in appreciation posts thanking the giver. Plastic, fuzzy wires, paper, real ones—I cannot escape the sight. Each petal seems to call me out; a disappointing reminder that someone, somewhere, is being seen in a way I am not.

I try not to care, but I do.

I long for the feeling of being seen, especially on a day like Valentine’s.

I’d be happy if I got roses.

I’d cherish tulips forever.

I’d feel brighter if I got sunflowers.

But peonies—they have always been my favorite. Yet, no one seemed to care.

𝐓𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝.

This quote has always lingered, a subtle ache I could never name.

I’ll get myself peonies.

I think that counts.