The flowers had long since withered. They died over spring break, but she just couldn’t bear to throw them away. They stood in their wine bottle in the corner of her desk, their stems dried into upside-down U’s, beneath the dark splotches her sadness left on the walls.
She had a friend over one evening, a girl with mint green hair that smelled like meadows in the sun. They studied, laughed, and the room lit up with their joy, bleaching out the spots of grief.
Only when she was alone again did she notice the scent of fresh wildflowers.