The jasmine hits me before I even see it.
A thick, sweet wave of scent rolls out the moment I push open the glass door of the gallery. It wraps around me instantly—soft, floral, intoxicating in a way that feels both beautiful and suffocating.
My first thought is that someone must be hosting an event.
My second thought—
the one that slides cold and certain down my spine—
is that this has Julian written all over it.
I take one step inside.
Then another.
And that’s when I see them.
Jasmine flowers.
Everywhere.
Dozens—no, hundreds—of white blossoms scattered across displays, filling vases, arranged in cascading towers on either side of the entry. Their petals glow under the track lighting, a ghostly brightness that makes the entire gallery feel unreal, like I’ve stepped into someone else’s dream.
Or someone else’s apology.
My breath catches, but not in a good way. The scent is overwhelming, thick enough to taste. Like walking inside a memory I didn’t consent to revisit.
Julian knows jasmine is my favorite.
He also knows I can’t resist it.
My fingers curl against my palms.
Someone must have arranged this within hours. Someone with connections. Someone who doesn’t mind spending money as a shortcut to emotion.
I force myself forward, heels clicking on polished concrete, heart thudding unevenly in my chest.
There’s a small card propped against the main vase—a tall cylinder overflowing with blossoms so dense they look like snow.
I don’t want to read it.
I already know exactly what it will say.
But I walk to it anyway, because I’m tired of running and even more tired of being haunted in my own spaces.
I pick up the card.
Two words.
For you.
No signature.
He didn’t need one.
My throat tightens.
It’s romantic. Beautiful. Thoughtful. Overwhelming.
All the things Julian excels at when he wants to rewrite a moment, reroute an argument, or overwhelm me into forgetting.
That’s the problem.
I close my eyes, and for a split second—just one—I feel it. The part of me that wants to sink into the scent, let it wash away the hotel room, the elevator, the ache of every unanswered question.
But the other part of me—
the part that’s finally, painfully learning to see—
knows this is not just romance.
This is reassurance wrapped in indulgence.
Control disguised as devotion.
A Band-Aid made of flowers for a wound he doesn’t want to look at.
The jasmine presses in around me, too sweet, too much, too soon.
I set the card back down, carefully, though my hands shake.
The gallery is beautiful, transformed.
But instead of feeling cherished, I feel… cornered.
Like he’s spoken first, spoken loudest, spoken lavishly—
leaving no room for me to speak at all.
My voice feels small in the scented air.
“Julian,” I whisper to the empty room, “what are you trying to fix?
And why does it feel like I’m the one who’s breaking?”
The jasmine doesn’t answer.
It just fills the silence, soft and overwhelming,
exactly the way he wanted it to.