Rotting with the Roses

By definition, an anniversary is a date that’s remembered or celebrated because something special, notable, or important occurred that day. Nowhere in that definition does it say it’s the day to break up with your girlfriend at the RTA bus stop. I stare at her, as if her words went through one ear and out the other. But they didn’t. They stuck to my brain like cactus needles to flesh.
	“I-I’m sorry…what..?” I ask. I grip the roses that she had given me in my hand, the thorns digging into my palms. 
	“...Mya…” The way she whispers my name makes me want to crumple into pieces. “I…I don’t see a future with you…”
	She might as well stab me, because it would feel the same either way. I planned my whole future with her. We would buy a house, our own house, and paint it green, but not that tacky leprechaun green, no. A light, sage color with copper brown shutters and ivy growing against the walls. It would be on a hill with a big backyard so our kids could run around in the summer and go sledding out back in the winter. And there’d be a porch out front with a swing to watch the kids as we sipped our sweet tea. We’d grow old on that swing together. 
	Now that house is burning, along with my future. 
	How could I have one without her in it? 
	How could she have one without me? 
	How?
	“...you’re my everything, Gia…” I whisper, pained.
	“...you were mine too…but, it’s for the better…”
	Were.
	Were.
	“...I-I should go…” Gia whispers. “...stay safe…I love you…” 
	She slowly walks away out of the bus stop, leaving me standing there as if I’m paralyzed. Blood trickles down my palm as the thorns break my skin. Those last 3 words she said sounded fake, because if she loved me, she wouldn’t have left me alone on that burning porch swing, and mascara wouldn’t be running down my face.
* * * * *
	It’s been almost a week and I’m still a wreck. I’ve barely slept, my meals have been inconsistent, and I’ve worn her sweatshirt for 3 days. The roses sit in a vase on the counter and they’re as much of a mess as I am. The petals are falling off and scattered on the counter, the stems are drying out, and the buds are wilting, drooping downward. I lay on the couch, shoving another spoonful of ice cream into my mouth as Netflix asks if I’m still watching. I scowl at the audacity and press the yes button, resuming my 9th rewatch of Shameless. 
	Over the past few days, I’ve gone through almost all the 5 stages of grief; 
	Denial was awful, a lot of sobbing. 
	All the sobbing. 
	I don’t even know if I have any tears left in me. 
	I texted Gia 3 times. 
	And then 7 more. 
	2 more to be safe. 
	I was left on read. 
	The next stage. 
	Anger. 
	That involved even more crying, but this time of seething irritation. 
	Hot, never ending tears and screaming till my voice went raspy. 
	I texted her 4 more times. 
	No reply. 
	Bargaining. 
	Made me desperate. 
	Pathetic. 
	It had been the first time I’d left the house that week. 
	I got stares and whispers at the store as I bought her flowers, specifically her favorites, red roses, almost identical to the ones she bought me. Except these were freshly-picked blooming buds, wrapped in unlike the wilted heap of thorns and dried leaves that sat upon my countertop. 
	Red roses were my favorite because of her. 
	The cashier had side eyed me. 
	I left them on her doorstep with a voicemail, pleading. 
	She finally texted back. 
	'It’s over, Mya.’ 
	More crying ensued. 
	Now, I was in what I think was the depression stage of this hellish, miserable grief and hadn’t left the couch for two days. I was living off of the snacks littered on the coffee table and half-empty Diet Coke cans. 
	I was waiting for the acceptance stage as I held on by a thread, watching the roses rot alongside me. 
* * * * *
	It’s been a month. 
	I’ve finally gotten back into a schedule, but the depression stage hasn’t gone away. It lurked, like a shadow that was bound to me. The roses are still on the counter and are unrecognizable, red petals turned brown and few petals remained on the buds.	
	I’ve been stalking her Instagram. 
	She got a new girlfriend.
	Maisie.
	Brunette pixie cut, stormy gray eyes, and a smile that can’t make me hate her no matter how much I wanted to.
	I want to be happy for her.
	I want to be so happy for her.
	But how can I be happy when the woman I wanted to grow old with is posting herself, drinking shirley temples and kissing in the rain with someone that isn’t me.
	There’s this one picture that I can’t stop staring at.
	She’s wearing a dress that matches her beautiful blue eyes and shimmers like her personality. 
	It’s obvious she had her guard down when the person took it because her hair is being blown everywhere by the wind and she looks like she’s mid-laugh. If she'd known it had been taken, she would've demanded a retake while giggling, fluffing up her auburn waves. 
	I would know.
	...
	She looks gorgeous.
	The most beautiful woman I’ve laid my eyes on.
	I was so tempted to like the post.
	The blank heart was right there, staring into my soul. 
	I don’t press it, and place my phone face down on the counter, staring at the roses.
	I know they’re wilting.
I know I should’ve thrown them out weeks ago.
	But deep down, I can’t.
	It’s the last thing she gave me.
	And it’s the last piece of my fantasy of that house on the hill I have.
	I would rather rot in my has-been fantasy paradise than rot in my personal hell.
* * * * *
	It’s been two months.
	
	The universe had finally granted me the relief of acceptance.
	
	I had reluctantly gone to a work event, some stupid company party where everyone was drunk off of cheap booze and trashy pop music loud enough to give me a headache, and I met Stevie.
	
	Dirty blonde hair, and eyes as green as emeralds mix with pure moonlight. 
	
	She laughed at my jokes and invited me to ditch her since the cocktails were awful and the bar down the street apparently the best.
	
	She made me forget about Gia immediately.
	
	All my worries, all my stresses, all my pain melted away when I was with her.
	
	A couple weeks later, we kissed in the car and it went from there.
	
	I finally threw away the roses, bidding them farewell and dumping the murky water down the drain, along with the ivy-covered house and the porch swing.
	I replaced them with a bouquet of blooming, yellow sunflowers, and a future filled with a small apartment in New York with a plant filled balcony and a calico cat. 
	
	I stare at the roses, a small smile painted on my face.
	I think I found my new favorite flower.