I Bought Myself Flowers

Dear Delyara, Not for a reason. Not because anyone forgot something. Not to prove a point. Just because I wanted colour in the kitchen and something inside me was tired of waiting for permission to receive beauty. Standing there choosing the flowers, I realised how often I still behave as if pleasure must be earned, gifted, or justified by occasion before I can accept it cleanly. This time I didn’t wait. I brought them home, cut the stems, put them in water, and every time I passed them that evening I felt a tiny stubborn gladness. Not because flowers fix anything. Because they were a visible sign that I had stopped excluding myself from tenderness by habit.