I was at the library the other day, passing by shelves trying to find that book. One, two, three... shelves searched and I still couldn't get my hands on the exact thing I was looking for. Passing by the fourth shelf I saw a book that stood out.

It's as if it was placed there in urgency hoping no one sees them while placing it or they just wanted it to be seen by someone's eye?

I sighed, mumbling "Why can't these people respect books??".

I don't like when books are not treated like royalties, because let's be honest they should be treated as ROYALTY OKAY?

Anyway I went to that spot and grabbed the book in my hands, it was a fictional book not my genre but it seemed nice. Tired by not being able to find the one I wanted, I sat with this one.

But before I could start, I saw a small page peeking out from the middle. Confused I opened the middle part and there it was, a letter folded and kept there in secrecy. I looked around to check if it's from anyone or if someone kept it here and forgot about it and maybe they might be looking for it? But I didn't find anyone with eyes searching for something they misplaced. They all were unaware & busy in their own worlds.

I opened the folds of that letter, slowly with curiosity. It was a simple white page but there were few coffee stains on it as well as lines of being folded again and again & then being opened again. After unfolding it, I was shown a long written material. Written in cursive writing. When one just writes without caring how neat or bad it looks, it was that kinda writing. Written with black pen.

It felt like a message they wanted someone to read. I noticed how the edges of this page were a bit damaged, as if they poured their heart out in pain and left it for someone else to pick it up and maybe feel their words a little. Feel their emotions a little? Feel them a little?

My curiosity peaked now and I started reading it.

At the top they wrote:

“May flowers grow in the saddest parts of you.”

and then under it there was a long & long paragraph that went something like this:

“Last night the wind came again, that tries to destroy everything. And it visits me often, when my heart and mind are unguarded. It brings memories of someone. A someone, I used to know.

First, the good memories. They make me question: 'Was it really that easy for you to let it go? That easy to leave for something else? That easy to walk away? How?'

Then the bad ones. The moments when their words cut like daggers. The very same words that used to make me feel like I'm up in the clouds. The times they made me feel guilty for holding to my values. And it reminds me of the promises they couldn’t keep.

Then the storm rages. It leaves me shattered. I'm used to it now, but the wounds get scraped all again. So it hurts, hurts to realize how foolish I was & not to mention the regrets.

Foolish enough to believe they would act, act on their own words?

I planted the seeds of what could have been. I told them, and they smiled. A smile that said I’ll always take care of them. And they even agreed they'd take care of them. But months passed., Years passed. I was the only one watering them. The only one watching over them. They were always busy.

'After this,' they would say. 'After that.' But after never came. Yes, I know they loved that plant. Or at least, they said they did. Now I wonder, did they? They were supposed to bring fresh soil when it grew. They promised. I waited. And waited. But they returned empty-handed.

They had their reasons. I understood those reasons. But who was there to understand my pain? What about the years, months and days I wasted on making this plant grow? Making the flowers bloom?

They shouldn’t have promised if they couldn't keep their word. It would have hurt less. Their reasons may have been valid. But so was my hurt!

My pain doesn’t know their excuses. It only knows it aches.

— unknown.”

I was speechless and had to pause. Did I just read a letter which carried someone's deepest pain and a piece of flesh of their own heart? Now it makes sense why the writing kept getting more cursive and messy as they reached the end. Perhaps they just wanted to let it all out before it turned into tears falling from their eyes. I wonder if making it alive on paper made their shoulders a bit free? Made their heart a bit healed? Did turning it into art console them a little? Of course, I could only sit and wonder.

I wish I could tell them that it's okay to have gardens that got ruined and the flowers that died. It's okay to have them be ruined for a while, just for them to grow stronger than ever & I wish I could tell them that I'm so certain about the fact that they will emerge stronger as a person and the garden that once got ruined will be filled with every kind of flower they wished for, and I wish I could tell them maybe one day they'll meet someone who'll not only help with taking care of their garden but will happily shower them with new flowers. Of course I could only wish.

I looked around again hoping to find someone whose eyes might be keeping this ache hidden behind them. Sadly I found no one. I let out a tired sigh and hoped they might be in a better state than before. They certainly will be. I know.