The Morning After (Her POV)

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The morning broke pale and muted, the snow falling in thick, soft sheets that dulled the world into silence. Her apartment still smelled faintly of the flowers from yesterday’s delivery — lilies and roses blooming too loudly in their vase on the counter, a scent that seemed to follow her from room to room.

Her birthday had come and gone the same way it had for five years now. Another bouquet left at her door, perfect and nameless, just as it always had been. She’d gone to bed with that familiar knot in her stomach, wondering if he’d been standing somewhere in the dark while she bent down to pick them up.

But she told herself it was over for the year. He always came only once. Always.

She pulled on her coat that morning with a distracted haste, her hair damp, her breath puffing against the chilled air seeping through the apartment walls. Work was waiting, and the storm outside was already threatening to make her late. She slung her bag over her shoulder, double-checked for her keys, and reached for the door.

She wasn’t prepared for what was waiting there.

Her hand froze on the knob as her eyes locked on it — another bouquet.

The air caught in her lungs. For a moment she thought her mind was playing tricks on her, that maybe it was yesterday’s flowers still haunting her. But no — these were different. Fresh. Wrapped in dark, charcoal paper that made the pale roses glow almost unnaturally against the morning gray at her doorway.

Her fingers trembled as she bent to touch them. This had never happened before. Five years, and he had always been predictable. Always one bouquet. Never two!!

But tucked between the stems, folded with eerie precision, was something new. A note.

Her pulse roared in her ears as she drew it out, the paper cool against her skin. The handwriting was neat, deliberate, each stroke heavy with intent. Five words.

We will meet soon, Snowflake ❄️

Her heart lurched. Her vision blurred. She stumbled back, her shoulder slamming against the doorframe as the note fluttered in her hand. For five years, there had been nothing but silence. No words. No messages. Only the unspoken ritual of flowers left at her doorstep.

Now—this.

The name twisted through her mind like a memory dragged up from ice. Snowflake. He remembered. That first winter night, five years ago, when she had slipped on the frozen sidewalk and collided with him. Her laughter had puffed out in white clouds before she realized he wasn’t laughing with her. He had only stared, snowflakes melting in her hair. And now he had given her that name back, like a secret she hadn’t chosen to share.

Her breath hitched, uneven. She crushed the note in her palm but couldn’t release it. The words seared into her skin, each one a promise she didn’t want.

She wasn’t ready.

She had convinced herself he would never cross that line. That he would stay at a distance, a shadow haunting her birthdays, nothing more. But this—this was different. This was closer.

She glanced down the hallway, suddenly certain he was there. Hiding. Watching. Her skin prickled as if invisible eyes traced her every movement. The air itself felt tighter, the silence pressing against her ears until she could hear nothing but her own heartbeat.

The flowers trembled in her hand, their perfume sweet and suffocating. The faintest trace of cologne clung to the wrapping — sharp, clean, like winter air.

He was near. Closer than ever.

Fear churned in her chest, but beneath it was something darker, unspoken. An ache she didn’t want to name.

Five years of silence had shattered with five words.

As she stood frozen in her doorway, the snow outside continued to fall, blanketing the street in white. Somewhere beyond her sight, he was waiting. Somewhere close, he was smiling.

And this time, he had promised her, they would meet.

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