The Fifth Year

He had always loved her. Had always admired her. Even it was from afar, he had always smiled with her, laughed with her, and cried with her. For the rest of his life, he would never forget the day they had first met, when they had realized that the seminar had been cancelled only after they had walked into the empty lecture hall. She had been outgoing even then - having stepped inside, she had taken one look at the empty podium before promptly inviting him to lunch. She hated eating alone, she had said, and she had missed lunch that day apparently and was hungry. He had, of course, politely declined, but in the end, he found himself sitting across from her at the nearest pizzeria. Little had he known that afternoon what would come of the spontaneous lunch. Little had he known how much happiness and heartbreak would come of their chance meeting.

Of course, that had been years ago, long before she had met his brother and even longer before he had realized his fate as everything slowly gone downhill, before he became tolerant of pain, tolerant of the torture that only comes from a broken heart, tolerant of every smile she directed his way, of the way she didn't know better. He didn't blame her for anything she did. She hadn't known, and she still didn't know what the complete and unadulterated truth was. He had made sure that she wouldn't know. Every frown, every smile, every quip and every joke had all been carefully calculated moves to throw her off his scent. Ever since that day, when there really was no going back, no second chance, he had played a game with her, a game where he tried to see how much longer he could keep the truth buried within the lies he fed her.

He could remember the wedding with a surreal vividness. She had been beautiful that day - or rather, more stunning than she usually was, with her snow-white dress and pretty little smile. She had been gracious enough to include him during the reception, to pull herself away from the small bubble of people constantly surrounding her and to keep her new brother-in-law company. She had even danced with him that night - twice - as he had watched from the sidelines and made sure that everything for the reception was going smoothly, and she hadn't wanted him to remember his brother's wedding as a time where he had worked hard behind-the-scenes while everyone else had the time of their lives.

During those brief, precious minutes, he consoled his broken heart by allowing himself to pretend, even if it was only for a few fleeting seconds, that she was his and he was hers. As she slowly turned around the floor with him, he gradually let the tension melt from him and pulled her closer to him as he dreamt of a better world, a happier world where he had found the courage to speak his heart and mind before his brother had. For a few, petty moments, he pieced together the sharp fragments of his heart and was happy.

That had been five years ago, five years in which he had dutifully suffered in silence. He had stood by as they shared a kiss in front of him and had looked away when his brother comforted her during her times of loneliness and exhaustion. He had even smiled when the door to the ward opened and he was finally introduced to his new-born nephew. But try as he might, he couldn't stop his feelings. Throughout those blissful four years when there had still been hope, he had loved her, and during the five after, he hadn't stopped. He didn't think he could ever stop - she was his soul mate after all. It was just that he wasn't her other half. It was just that he had waited too long, had been too afraid of what might have happened and had turned a blind eye to what could have been. So that was why he stood in the boutique and handed the florist his credit card. That was why he stared at the white roses in the silver vase as they proudly showed off their elegant beauty.

He always sent her flowers. Always. On Valentine's Day, he'd send her an overwhelming bouquet of white roses. Gentle pink was for her birthday, and he made sure to send her a single Lisianthus every so often, to make sure she'd smile even when the world seemed to weigh on her shoulders. For four years, he had never missed a bouquet, and the florists came to know him well. They complimented him on his annual pilgrimages, complimenting and praising him for being so loving to his wife. He kept quiet on the matter and simply let them assume whatever they wished - their imaginations were far better than the truth.

"Are you planning anything special? It's your fifth wedding anniversary, isn't it?"

"There's a restaurant she's been wanting to go to for some time."

"And so you're going to take her there," finished the kindly woman. "How thoughtful. You're still lovestruck, aren't you?"

"Something like that."

She chuckled as she handed him the receipt for his signature.

"You must love her very much."

"I do," he replied quietly. "I do love her."

Her laugh lines crinkling into a well-worn smile as she warmly said, "I'm sure she loves you just as much as you love her."

He painfully returned her smile as he quipped, "I should hope so."

"I'm sure she does. What woman wouldn't love a romantic husband?"

He gave a noncommittal answer before asking when the bouquet would be delivered. She replied that she'd receive it a little after he left for work - at around 8:30 - so that she could spend the whole day with the bouquet until he returned home and they went on to their special dinner. Just as it had always had for the past four years. The young man thanked her before bidding her goodbye and leaving the store.

The moment his foot crossed the threshold, he dropped his smile and hung his head. Rubbing his eyes tiredly, he crushed the urge to sigh before trudging down the busy streets of the snowy city. He didn't know how much more his heart could withstand. He had endured for eight years, four of which had been some of the most impossible and torturous of his life. Their marriage, their life together, had just begun. What was he to do for the next fifty years? Was his fate to hide in the shadows and anonymously express his love for her through mysterious bouquets? Was that what his life would be reduced to?

Yes. Yes, because if it meant keeping her from harm, if it meant keeping her happy in her peaceful life, if it meant her smile, then he'd continue to faithfully send her flowers. He'd swallow his bitterness for her, he'd slip on a smiling mask and bite his tongue for her. Because he loved her. Because he wanted her to be happy. Because he had no choice, he didn't want to hurt her.

Because he loved her, he'd smother his heart.

Because he had always loved her.

Fin.