Anna woke to the sound of her phone buzzing on the nightstand. For a moment, she lay there, the weight of yesterday pressing down like the too-heavy comforter she’d pulled over herself in an attempt to block out the world. The memory of Tayler’s note, her empty apartment, and the solitary rose trickled back, each one a sharp ache. She rolled onto her side, reluctantly reaching for the phone.
A text message glowed on the screen. It was her mother.
"Good morning, honey. How are you today?"
Anna let the phone drop onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling. She could picture her mother typing the message, her fingers deliberate, her concern laced with hope that Anna would respond. Catherine’s texts came daily, like clockwork—unwavering, patient, always laced with affection that Anna couldn’t bear to face. Especially now.
How are you today? The question felt absurd, like a cruel joke. How could she possibly explain? She thought about typing a response but couldn’t decide what to say. Finally, she pressed the upside-down smiley face emoji and hit send, dropping the phone beside her like it had burned her. She closed her eyes, her fists clenching the fabric of the blanket.
The warmth of her tears came unbidden. Her grief didn’t ask for permission—it simply took her, enveloping her until it was all she could feel. Minutes stretched into an hour before she forced herself out of bed.
Her reflection in the bathroom mirror startled her. Puffy eyes, pale skin, dark circles beneath eyes that looked empty. Haunted. She turned away quickly and splashed cold water on her face, as though the shock could wash away more than just the sleep from her skin.
Dressing felt pointless, but she pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweater anyway. Routine could help, she told herself. It was one of the only things holding her together now. She moved into the kitchen and flicked on the coffee maker, the mechanical whirr filling the silence. Her gaze drifted to the rose, still resting in a glass of water on the counter.
Her fingers reached out instinctively to trace the edges of its petals. The bloom was still fresh, as though it had just been picked. Vibrant, soft, and inexplicably alive in the starkness of her kitchen. The note beside it caught her eye again.
"You are not alone.”
Who had left it? She’d fallen asleep clutching the thought, but morning had stripped it of its warmth, leaving only questions. It didn’t make sense. No one knew what she was going through. Tayler had walked away. Her family was across town but might as well have been an ocean away. Who could have written such words?
The coffee maker beeped, pulling her from her thoughts. She poured a mug, sipping the bitter liquid as she stared at the snow outside the window. It had fallen through the night, a fresh layer sparkling in the morning light. She had no plans, no reason to leave the apartment, but the walls felt suffocating.
She opened the front door, the icy air wrapping around her instantly. Her breath clouded in front of her, a visible reminder that she was still here, still breathing. For a fleeting moment, she let herself hope that there might be another rose. The thought startled her—when had she started wanting something so absurd?
And yet, when she glanced toward the mailbox, there it was.
Another rose.
A sharp inhale stilled in her chest as she opened the door, the icy air biting at her skin. This rose was just as beautiful, its petals a perfect crimson. It was tied with the same brown paper, the same twine. And there, attached, was another note.
Her hands shook as she unfolded it.
"You are known.”
The words seemed to echo in the quiet morning, filling spaces in her heart that she hadn’t realized were empty. Known. The thought struck something deep inside her. She pressed the note against her chest, the other hand clutching the rose. Tears stung her eyes, but these were different. They didn’t burn with despair; they warmed.
Someone had left this for her. Someone thought she was known.
She scanned the street again, but there was no sign of anyone. The houses were quiet, the snow undisturbed except for her own footprints. Who could it be? The same question as before. The same sense of mystery. But this time, the question didn’t overwhelm her. It stayed with her, gentle, like the rose in her hand.
Back inside, she placed the second rose next to the first. She stood there for a long time, staring at the two blooms, their message reverberating through her.
You are not alone. You are known.
She thought of Catherine’s text and felt a pang of regret for her flippant response. Her mother had always seemed to know when she was struggling, offering her hand even when Anna didn’t want it. Maybe Catherine wasn’t the kind of person who could leave roses, but the quiet consistency of her love felt like the same thread of hope.
Could it be?
Anna dismissed the thought. It was too neat, too obvious. And besides, Catherine would have said something, wouldn’t she? She wasn’t the kind to hide behind gestures like these. She believed in honesty, in speaking directly—even when it hurt.
But the thought lingered, and with it, another: Maybe the person leaving the roses didn’t matter as much as the message. Maybe the point wasn’t to solve the mystery but to believe the words.
You are not alone. You are known.
She felt her hand drift to her womb again, resting there. Since Tayler left, she had avoided letting herself wonder—not just about her own future, but about the child she carried. Did it matter that she felt adrift? Did it matter that she wasn’t ready? The life within her didn’t know her fears, didn’t measure her worth the way she did.
The coffee in her mug grew cold as Anna stood there, hand on her womb, staring at the roses. A flicker of warmth spread in her chest, fragile but real. It wasn’t hope, not yet. But it was something.
