Sometimes being chosen feels like love, especially when it’s sudden and full of attention.
The flowers didn’t know that hands can admire beauty without intending to care for it.
They were picked, held close for a moment, and believed that meant devotion.
But love isn’t the act of choosing—it’s the act of staying, protecting, and letting something live even when it no longer serves you.
Being chosen isn’t love. Staying is.
Good noon 
