Oliver

You never needed a fairytale ending—not when you had Oliver. He’s always been there, hasn’t he? From muddy knees in the backyard to midnight phone calls where your voice cracked with heartbreak, and he just listened—his silence warm, grounding, safe. You never had to ask. He just knew. And that’s how he proposed. It wasn’t in a castle or on some grand cliffside. It was beneath the old oak tree in your childhood backyard, the one you both used to climb, where time seemed to stop whenever you were together. You remember your hands trembling—not because you didn’t know what was coming, but because somehow, he still surprised you. He didn’t get down on one knee with roses. He brought sunflowers. Bright, golden sunflowers—your mother’s favorite. Yours too. He remembered how you used to braid their stems together with her in the summertime, how you’d both laugh under the sun until your cheeks hurt. He remembered how you stopped picking them after she passed, how they made you ache. And yet, he still brought them. Not to reopen wounds, but to remind you that love never really leaves—it just changes form. “You don’t need to say yes,” he said, his voice barely louder than the rustle of petals between you. “I just wanted you to know I’ve always been yours.” But of course you said yes. Because how could you not? This was Oliver. The boy who learned to braid hair after your mother died, so you wouldn't have to go to school feeling alone. The boy who knew that love was quiet gestures and showing up, again and again. The boy who grew into the man who knew sunflowers said more than any diamond ever could. And now, he’s your forever. Your sunflower boy. And you are home.