For 20 years, a mystery bouquet arrived on the same day, without fail. No card. No name. Just flowers from a boy I barely knew. But this year, they didn’t come. And that silence at my doorstep told me it was time to find out who—and why—he finally stopped.
We were drinking tea in my kitchen, me and Ethan — the kind of guy who always brought his own coaster and wiped it down before setting it on the table.
He had kind eyes and a soft voice, and when he laughed, it felt like a polite nod rather than a bellyful of joy. We’d gone out a few times.
He always opened doors and complimented my earrings. It wasn’t love, not even close, but it was… comfortable.
Still, that night, I couldn’t sit still. My legs bounced under the table. I kept glancing at the window, my phone, the door. Ethan noticed.
“Are you expecting someone?” he asked, tilting his head and smiling, like it was a harmless question.
He raised his eyebrows.
“Flowers? From who?”
I stared into my tea.
“A boy from high school. We weren’t close. Barely spoke, really. But the year after graduation, he sent flowers. Then the year after that. And the next. Always different. Always beautiful. Never a note.”
“Every single year?” he asked, a little grin playing on his lips.
“Every single year,” I said, meeting his eyes.
He chuckled.
“You’re kidding.”
“Dead serious.”
He leaned back.
“Okay. I’ll bite. Bet they don’t show today.”
I smiled. “You’re on.”
We shook on it — lighthearted, like it was a game. But the hours slipped by. The sky outside turned pink, then gold, then deep blue.
Then — finally — a sound. A knock on the door. I leapt to my feet, heart racing, already smelling roses in my mind.
But when I opened it, it was just Mrs. Pruitt from next door, holding up my scarf with a kind smile.
“Thought you’d want this before someone stepped on it.”
I took it, nodded, thanked her.
Behind me, Ethan laughed gently.
“I almost believed you,” he said, grabbing his coat.
“Almost.”
And then he was gone.
And I stood in the quiet hallway, staring at the empty step, wondering what had changed.
I spent half the night walking back and forth through my living room. I couldn’t sit down. I couldn’t sleep. The question wouldn’t let go of me.
Why stop now? Why, after twenty years, would he suddenly stop?
My mind went back to last year. I remembered something odd—the courier had called ahead to make sure I was home.
That wasn’t usual. Normally, the flowers just showed up. But that call stuck in my mind.
Maybe, just maybe, I had a way to find him.
I grabbed my phone and scrolled through old calls.
Most numbers meant nothing. But then I saw one labeled “Flowers.” I tapped it, holding my breath.
It rang twice.
“You delivered flowers to me last year on this date. I was wondering… do you happen to remember who sent them?”
There was a pause on the line. Then a soft chuckle.
“Ah, yeah. You’re the mystery lady, right? The one who never knows who the yearly flowers are from.”
“That’s me,” I said. My voice felt smaller than usual.
“Do you have the sender’s address? Or name?”
He hesitated.
“I’m not really supposed to give that out… company rules and all.”
“Please,” I said, softer now. “It’s important.”
There was silence. Then a sigh.
“Hang on. I’ll check the old records.”
Ten minutes felt like an hour. But finally, a message popped up on my screen.
An address.
I stared at it, heart racing. Then I grabbed my coat and keys.
Ethan stood there with a big grin, holding a bouquet of daisies and two theater tickets like a boy showing off a prize.
“Thought I’d surprise you,” he said.
“Matinee show. And your favorite flowers.”
I blinked, caught off guard.
“That’s… sweet,” I said slowly, carefully.
His smile faded just a little. “But?”
“I have plans.”
His eyebrows pulled together.
“Plans?”
“I’m going for a drive,” I said, reaching for honesty without giving everything away.
He tilted his head like a curious dog.
“Long drive?”
I paused. “A couple of hours.”
He stepped forward, hopeful.
