Tulips.

I’ve always loved tulips.

It’s not a big dark secret or something, just a thought I’ve kept mostly to myself all my life. Tulips are pretty.

So are bluebells, peonies, and tiger lilies. But tulips, I don’t think there can be any flower prettier than them.

But, I realised, I’ve never bought myself tulips.

Not because I couldn't.

Just because somewhere along the way, I convinced myself they were the sort of thing someone else was supposed to give me.

Like birthday candles.

Or handwritten letters.

Or being chosen.

I kept waiting for the day someone would arrive with a bouquet tucked behind their back, smiling with mischief written all over their face.

I imagined I'd laugh.

Pretend I wasn't already thinking about where I'd keep them.

Which one of my vases I'd use.

How I'd press one between the pages of a book after it finally wilted.

It never happened.

The years passed anyway.

Very sparingly would I come across a flower shop in spring to find tulips packed in paper sleeves, waiting to be picked. 

I’ve come to realise they’re quite rare to find. 

Yet, every time, all I’ve left with was a wistful smile and a promise of another time.

Someone else's time.

It took me embarrassingly long to realise that I’d not been waiting to be cherished, but for permission. A reason. Some kind of confirmation that I need to deserve my tulips.

Permission to believe I deserved something beautiful without an occasion.

Without someone else's hands placing it there.

After all, I can’t gift myself, can I?

The tulips lasted only a week.

But that’s okay.

Turns out I can just buy them again.