I found the lily by accident.
It grew atop a grassy hill, between two stones split by frost, its stem bent and its white petals cupped like it was ready to give in to the coldness of winter. I remember thinking it shouldn’t be alive. I remember thinking that it meant something.
I used to visit it when the days felt long and when the walls enclosed me. I would sit beside it and tell it things I never said aloud — my name, my fears, the way I wished the world was less of a burden. The lily never answered back, but it listened better than anyone else had.
I learned how fragile beauty could be by watching it endure.
When winter came, I wrapped my coat around it once. I was small and didn’t know how the cold worked yet. I thought warmth was something you could give without losing any yourself. I thought love was enough.
Spring returned, but the lily did not.
Its petals browned first, curling inward as if it had finally given up. I remember touching it and feeling how light it had become, how something so alive could leave behind so little. I didn’t cry, I just sat there, staring, waiting for it to apologize for leaving.
Years later, I learned that some things aren’t meant to last. Some things are only meant to teach you what it feels like to love something delicately. To hold it without crushing it and to lose it without understanding why.
I still think of the lily sometimes, not because it died, but because for a while, it lived.
