Cattleya The Flower

I believed the problem was always me. I didn’t know why I was so difficult, so different, so sensitive.

No one ever told me exactly how to be better, how not to make the people around me feel uncomfortable, angry, or frustrated.

I was always looking for ways to please them, hoping they would finally notice my effort and give me some praise.

I wasn’t even sure what kind of flower I was.

No one ever told me.

I had a mirror, but it only showed my outer appearance—the part that people already see. Everything else, hidden inside me, neither the mirror nor I could uncover.

At first, I didn’t even recognize any special beauty in myself. People were drawn to roses instead, especially the fiery red ones, full of love, passion, and beauty. Some of my companions were chosen by others, but some were returned with the casual words: “This is impossible to care for.”

I was one of the very few. I had yet to see anyone who looked like me.

The florist was the only one who gave me love, even though sometimes, out of too much concern, she would place me in too much sun, give me less water than I needed. I was one of her first flowers here, and I had yet to go anywhere.

I felt her love. But at the same time, I felt the need for more—more attention, understanding, time, and love—the kind I needed, in the way I needed it. For a long time, I wasn’t even aware of exactly how, but I would sit for hours in front of the window, bathed in sunlight, lost in my world of imagination and illusion.

A world where someone knows me without a word. A world where someone understands me without having to explain. A world where I have enough space and peace, yet still receive attention and care.

Someone who studies and reads exactly how many milliliters of water I need, how often. What temperature suits me, when I’m cold, and when I’m too hot. Which words stress me out, making my petals fall, and which nurture me so new ones can grow.

And on that sunny afternoon, with birds chirping outside, the bell on the door rang.

A young gentleman entered, looking for something unique, delicate, forgotten. He didn’t use those exact words, but the florist understood perfectly. She recommended me.

To my delight, he liked me very much. For the first time, someone took me with such tenderness, with a gaze that nourished me like the sun.

As if I, so fragile and small, were exactly what he needed in his life.

After only a few seconds of exchanging gentle glances, he agreed to take me without asking about the price. The cost didn’t matter anymore. Without a word, he paid for me and took me home.

He didn’t have a manual. He didn’t even ask anyone how to care for me. Yet somehow, he seemed to know better than anyone. With a few mistakes along the way, of course.

The family he lived with was very judgmental.

Why so much attention for a mere flower? Why that one, among so many other beautiful blooms?

How could he know I didn’t carry some contagious disease, since who knows where I came from?

No matter how hurtful those words were, his care and watering healed every wound on my petals.

As time went by, he learned how to care for me. Every day he grew better. Every day, my sensitivity became what he loved most about me.

All those difficult struggles not to hurt me paid off in the end, because now, even in his moments of anger, he finds calm and comfort in me. He waters me, places me by the sunlit window, and tells me stories—everything I once dreamed of.

Everything that happened in my little world had now become reality.

From heart

Through words

A ✨

Catlleya Orchid ✨