By Kristen Hurtado

“I’ve loved like that too, you know.”

I utter quietly in a coffee shop, drowned out by the hum of the chatter and the clatter of the espresso machines. I watch as the couple in front of me laugh. She’s gotten whip cream on the tip of her nose, he’s teasing her and wiping it off. And they are happy. Later that night they’ll disappear into the evening. They’ll take a stroll with their hands intertwined. The stars, how they twinkle a little brighter, how the moon spills light like a lantern in the sky. For them it will feel as if it is day, and then that fades away. 

“I’ll have you know I am very happy.”

I am happy. I enjoy solitude, like the silence which is left after the storm passes through. There is a peace in it, a stillness in which I cherish. Though my mind cannot help but reminisce on days of early budding. I have watched it take root, watched it unfold in delicate petals. I’ve watered it, nurtured it, and been consumed by it. And then it comes to wither. Slowly at first, unnoticed, until one day, it shriveled in front of me

“It was very long ago you see.”

The butterflies have long been dead, their wings no longer fluttering inside me. I look at the couple again, feeling a strange mix of nostalgia and peace. It's not envy. No, not that. Just a quiet acknowledgment of something I once held.

"It was inevitable, really,"

I say softly to myself, my fingers tracing the rim of the coffee cup. I sometimes fear I will never see the bud bloom once more, that my one chance at tending a garden has passed, the soil now barren. Then I remember, a flower can not be forced to stay alive, only encouraged. One day I’ll see a flower once more, that is inevitable. Perhaps next time the flower will be evergreen. Perhaps next it will flourish in the coldest winds and thrive as the days shift into the season of blue. 

“I’ve loved like that too, you know, and I will love like that again.”