She returned the next day.
Same soft smile.
Same gentle steps.
Same green eyes that seemed to search my face as if trying to memorize every line.
"I came back for more lavender," she said.
But her hands were empty—
she hadn't even used the ones she bought yesterday.
Something inside me trembled,
a small instinct whispering that people don't return that quickly…
not for flowers.
Yet I pushed the thought away.
I always push things away.
She lingered longer this time, asking simple questions:
"What's your name?"
"Do you live here?"
"Do you run this small shop alone?"
Her curiosity felt warm.
Almost comforting.
But every comfort I've known eventually turned into a knife.
Still… I tried to answer her.
Her voice had a softness that pulled words out of my mouth before I could stop them.
Then she said something strange:
"You must have been through a lot."
Her gaze softened.
"I can see it… in your eyes."
My chest tightened.
How could she know?
How could she see so much… so quickly?
I looked down at the flowers between us.
People don't notice pain unless they caused it.
Or unless they want something from it.
But she smiled again—
that same silky, gentle smile—
and touched one of the petals lightly, as if touching something fragile.
"I hope one day you let someone help you," she whispered.
A chill ran through my spine.
Not because of her words.
But because her voice—
for a split second—
didn't sound like her.
It was softer.
Lower.
Controlled.
Almost… rehearsed.
Something inside me stirred, something old and frightened:
This kindness… feels practiced.
But before I could think further, she stepped back and waved.
"I'll see you tomorrow," she said.
Tomorrow.
As if she already knew I would be here.
As if she already planned to return.
And when she walked away,
I saw her take out her phone—
a brief moment—
and her expression changed completely.
Her smile vanished.
Her eyes went cold.
Her lips tightened as she typed quickly.
Then she looked up again and forced a sweet expression when she noticed I was watching.
A fake sweetness.
An unnatural warmth.
A familiar chill crawled up my spine—
the same chill Jack's voice used to plant in my heart.
Because kindness like that…
doesn't come for free.
And nothing that perfect
ever comes without a reason.
She didn't stop coming.
Day after day, she would stand in front of my flower stand with that same delicate smile—
the kind that felt like sunlight warming a place inside me I never knew was frozen.
At first, I thought it was coincidence.
Then familiarity.
Then… routine.
But soon, it began to feel like something I didn't dare name.
She stayed longer each time.
Sometimes she helped me tie ribbons around bouquets.
Sometimes she asked about the meanings of flowers, listening with a softness no one had ever offered me.
"You have gentle hands," she once said.
"I didn't expect that."
I didn't know how to answer her.
My hands had never been called gentle before.
They had only been called weak.
But she looked at them like they were worth something.
And that alone terrified me.
---
One afternoon, while arranging roses together, her fingers brushed against mine.
A simple touch.
Barely a second.
But my whole body froze.
She didn't pull away.
She didn't blush.
She simply looked at me with those green eyes—warm, focused, knowing.
Warmth spread through my chest.
Something unfamiliar.
Something dangerous.
She stepped a little closer.
"You don't have to be afraid of me," she whispered.
Afraid?
If only she knew…
I wasn't afraid of her.
I was afraid of what she was making me feel.
No one had ever spoken to me that way.
No one had ever looked at me like I mattered.
Nobody had ever stayed.
But she stayed.
And little by little…
I began to wait for her.
To watch the street before she arrived.
To notice the sound of her steps.
To feel a strange warmth in my chest when her shadow appeared.
I didn't know it then…
but that was the beginning of my undoing.
Because trust was something I had never given freely.
And she was the first person I handed it to with trembling hands—
believing, naïvely, recklessly…
that she was real.
She smiled at me again.
Softer this time.
Closer.
"If you ever feel lonely… you can talk to me," she said.
Her voice was a net—silken, gentle, intentional.
And I fell into it without even realizing.
For the first time in my life…
I thought maybe something beautiful could happen to me.
Maybe someone could care.
Maybe love—whatever it was—might have a place for me too.
What I didn't see
was the darkness behind her kindness.
The shadow watching through her eyes.
The truth hidden behind every soft word.
The truth that she wasn't there to love me.
She was there to destroy me
exactly when I learned how to hope.