Wednesday
Favoured Frenzy
Rose Day arrives quietly… yet loudly enough to remind hearts about love, admiration, and unspoken feelings. Streets bloom with colours that never naturally grow together. Red roses wrapped in glossy papers. Yellow roses tied with ribbons of friendship. Pink roses carrying shy admiration.
And amidst this celebration of petals and confessions…
There exists a girl who never received a rose.
Not once.
Not accidentally.
Not even as a passing gesture.
She watches from a comfortable distance the kind of distance she built after realising expectations are fragile things. She has learned that hoping too loudly makes disappointment echo louder.
She isn’t jealous… no.
Jealousy requires resentment… and she is too soft to hold resentment for long.
Instead, she observes quietly, like Wednesday would… noticing details others miss.
She notices how some roses are gifted with genuine warmth.
She also notices how some are exchanged like formalities… destined to dry between forgotten book pages or abandoned inside drawers.
She watches people carefully selecting roses red for love, yellow for friendship, pink for admiration…
And sometimes she wonders which colour would represent someone who gives love but never receives it back.
Maybe black… like Wednesday would choose.
Not for sorrow… but for strength that blooms in shadows.
Ironically, she values roses deeply.
Not because of their beauty alone… but because they bloom despite carrying thorns. She finds comfort in that silent symbolism. Strength hidden within softness… protection wrapped inside vulnerability.
If someone ever asked her favourite flower, she would say “rose” with a small smile… even though she has never held one meant for her.
She is the girl who would admire flower shops while pretending she is just passing by.
The girl who memorizes the fragrance of roses without touching them.
The girl who secretly believes flowers deserve to be felt, not just seen.
But life writes stories differently for people like her.
She became the listener when others needed someone to pour their emotions into.
She became the comfort when friends cried about broken promises.
She became the quiet supporter clapping for others receiving the very gestures she never experienced.
People often mistake her silence as strength…
They don’t realise silence sometimes grows from learning that expressing desires makes you feel exposed.
Still… she gives.
She gives kindness like it costs nothing.
She gives time like her own loneliness has no value.
She gives warmth like she was never left standing in emotional winters.
And strangely… she does all this with a gentle smile that hides the small ache resting inside her chest.
Maybe she never received a rose because she was busy becoming one for everyone else.
She became the flower people leaned toward when they needed comfort.
She became the softness that made others feel safe.
She became the beauty that blooms quietly… without demanding to be admired.
Yet she also carries thorns.
Not sharp enough to hurt others…
But strong enough to protect her fragile heart from completely shattering. She learned to hide those thorns carefully because hurting others would hurt her more.
On Rose Days, she doesn’t feel empty…
She feels thoughtful.
She wonders how it must feel to be chosen intentionally.
To have someone walk toward her with petals trembling slightly in their hands.
To hear words meant only for her existence… not shared with a crowd… not given out of habit.
She wonders how it must feel to be someone’s unexpected happiness.
Sometimes she imagines receiving a rose when she least expects it maybe on an ordinary day rather than during celebrations. Because she believes ordinary days hold the purest emotions… emotions untouched by social traditions.
But imagination remains her safest garden… where flowers bloom without fear of rejection.
She continues walking through life quietly watering other people’s gardens.
Encouraging their growth.
Protecting their smiles.
Standing beside them during storms… even when no one notices she is standing in rain without shelter.
And if destiny ever decides to place a rose in her hands…
She won’t question why it came late.
She won’t ask whether she deserves it.
Because deep inside… she always doubted she did.
She would simply hold it carefully… as if holding something sacred.
She would trace its petals slowly… memorizing a feeling she once thought life forgot to give her.
Maybe her eyes would shimmer slightly…
Not from sadness… but from finally being seen.
Until that day arrives… or maybe even if it never arrives…
She remains unchanged.
The girl who never received a rose…
Yet continues blooming in silence…
Spreading fragrance in lives that may never remember her presence…
Standing strong like a flower growing between cracks in stone…
Soft enough to love deeply…
Dark enough to survive alone…
And beautiful enough to bloom…
even when no one is watching.
And amidst this celebration of petals and confessions…
There exists a girl who never received a rose.
Not once.
Not accidentally.
Not even as a passing gesture.
She watches from a comfortable distance the kind of distance she built after realising expectations are fragile things. She has learned that hoping too loudly makes disappointment echo louder.
She isn’t jealous… no.
Jealousy requires resentment… and she is too soft to hold resentment for long.
Instead, she observes quietly, like Wednesday would… noticing details others miss.
She notices how some roses are gifted with genuine warmth.
She also notices how some are exchanged like formalities… destined to dry between forgotten book pages or abandoned inside drawers.
She watches people carefully selecting roses red for love, yellow for friendship, pink for admiration…
And sometimes she wonders which colour would represent someone who gives love but never receives it back.
Maybe black… like Wednesday would choose.
Not for sorrow… but for strength that blooms in shadows.
Ironically, she values roses deeply.
Not because of their beauty alone… but because they bloom despite carrying thorns. She finds comfort in that silent symbolism. Strength hidden within softness… protection wrapped inside vulnerability.
If someone ever asked her favourite flower, she would say “rose” with a small smile… even though she has never held one meant for her.
She is the girl who would admire flower shops while pretending she is just passing by.
The girl who memorizes the fragrance of roses without touching them.
The girl who secretly believes flowers deserve to be felt, not just seen.
But life writes stories differently for people like her.
She became the listener when others needed someone to pour their emotions into.
She became the comfort when friends cried about broken promises.
She became the quiet supporter clapping for others receiving the very gestures she never experienced.
People often mistake her silence as strength…
They don’t realise silence sometimes grows from learning that expressing desires makes you feel exposed.
Still… she gives.
She gives kindness like it costs nothing.
She gives time like her own loneliness has no value.
She gives warmth like she was never left standing in emotional winters.
And strangely… she does all this with a gentle smile that hides the small ache resting inside her chest.
Maybe she never received a rose because she was busy becoming one for everyone else.
She became the flower people leaned toward when they needed comfort.
She became the softness that made others feel safe.
She became the beauty that blooms quietly… without demanding to be admired.
Yet she also carries thorns.
Not sharp enough to hurt others…
But strong enough to protect her fragile heart from completely shattering. She learned to hide those thorns carefully because hurting others would hurt her more.
On Rose Days, she doesn’t feel empty…
She feels thoughtful.
She wonders how it must feel to be chosen intentionally.
To have someone walk toward her with petals trembling slightly in their hands.
To hear words meant only for her existence… not shared with a crowd… not given out of habit.
She wonders how it must feel to be someone’s unexpected happiness.
Sometimes she imagines receiving a rose when she least expects it maybe on an ordinary day rather than during celebrations. Because she believes ordinary days hold the purest emotions… emotions untouched by social traditions.
But imagination remains her safest garden… where flowers bloom without fear of rejection.
She continues walking through life quietly watering other people’s gardens.
Encouraging their growth.
Protecting their smiles.
Standing beside them during storms… even when no one notices she is standing in rain without shelter.
And if destiny ever decides to place a rose in her hands…
She won’t question why it came late.
She won’t ask whether she deserves it.
Because deep inside… she always doubted she did.
She would simply hold it carefully… as if holding something sacred.
She would trace its petals slowly… memorizing a feeling she once thought life forgot to give her.
Maybe her eyes would shimmer slightly…
Not from sadness… but from finally being seen.
Until that day arrives… or maybe even if it never arrives…
She remains unchanged.
The girl who never received a rose…
Yet continues blooming in silence…
Spreading fragrance in lives that may never remember her presence…
Standing strong like a flower growing between cracks in stone…
Soft enough to love deeply…
Dark enough to survive alone…
And beautiful enough to bloom…
even when no one is watching.
waiting to be plucked up by a people who deserve it and nurture them with care
in 
Please keep writing and drawing.
