He had left her an amarillys on the low stone-wall surrounding her home garden. As soon as he saw those flowers, he immediately thought of her, and it didn't seem strange to him: those majestic stems — whose maximum height almost touched ninety centimetres — and poisonous bulbs were icons of pride, just like " Black Diamond " seemed to him back then.
However, their colours were so delicate that they didn't even seem natural; he had only seen hues like these in rare, stunning paintings.
They had overflowed his heart with a strange, nameless happiness; exactly the same feeling he experienced when, after thousands of failed attempts of getting into conversation with her and some skirmishes in the general context of cold respect, he casually said that he owned some rhodendrum argenteum flowers at his house, in the far Kangmar, and she smiled.
 It wasn't one of those trivial smile so common to her, without any value or feelings; her smile was so sweet that had left him breathless and speechless.
The cute dimples which appeared on the sides of her red cheeks, really outscored him.

 That girl was a perfect match between pride and kindness; it was for this reason that he immediately associated those flowers to her.

That wasn't their season — they smelled of greenhouse from miles — but he had to make an exception for their beauty: those flowers were too pretty to wither in a vivarium.
 The florist — a kind and slender lady, just like the majority of plants she selled — didn't show any indiscretions when he stated that he would've bought only a single flower; however, she wrapped up the stem of his amarillys with a red velvet ribbon, an horrible bow and a card.Useless attentions.
Flowers are perfect just the way they are, he thought, especially single ones.
He decided that he would've given her the bare flower in all its natural beauty.
The velvet ribbon and the bow could have turned useful in other occasions; the little card, instead, was perfect.
He wasn't sure whether she knew about the European language of flowers or not; however, she was interested in it, so it was better to leave a hint about his true intentions.

He couldn't have talked to her like he would because she had a medical appointment and he had to go to his violin lesson, so they wouldn't have met again until the following day.
Text messages were put aside since his mobile phone was left without battery charge and credit, and he was too impatient to wait for his father to recharge it.
Furthermore, the idea of handwriting the card really attracted him. He has never been a romantic person; however, the sight of flowers and card perfectly disposed on the wall caused his cheeks to blush, while a fleeting smile curved his thin lips. 

He thought a lot about what to write: nothing too pompous; he wanted simple and spontaneous words like crystal-clear spring water.
He was really afraid of scaring her and didn't want to take any false step. 
She was so introvert! But he knew well that beyond that wall of ice there was a storm of feelings awaiting to come out.
For this reason he needed to be more careful: her soul, just like her thin body, was too fragile, and it needed nothing to retire into herself again.
It wasn't easy gaining her trust either, after what she has been through, making things harder.After rewriting his message with his not-so-pretty handwriting, he let out a sigh.
He wrote his most sincere feelings for her, but he couldn't know whether she would've appreciated that message or being bothered by it. 

While he was coming out of the room and running along the road that separated him from that low-stone wall, he melancholically asked himself what would her mother have said seeing him doing this, if she only would be alive. 

❝ Remember when you told me about your sufferings and then you suddenly stopped?
You told me it was difficult for you to be like an open book.
So, take this flower as an invitation to be like that, or at least to try.
If you need to talk, ask me whenever you want. I'm not a psychologist, but I'd like to cheer you up.
We'll be fine together, you'll see. 

                                                                                                                                                                                               - X

P.S. : Some days ago you asked me what that flower you painted in sanguine was, but I couldn't answer you.Now I can tell it was a marigold. Find its meaning in your little book and you'll find out what I'm trying to tell you. ❞