i don't have an excuse for this, but if you want an apology i can issue that.

There was a flower in your hair the day we met. You've denied it to high hell and back, because you're a warrior. You're meant to wield swords and shed blood, not flowers and petals. You're supposed to be a force to be reckoned, not one with nature.

Yet there was a flower in your hair. I remember, because it was the first thing I noticed about you. The flower was pink, a beautiful, soft pink that matched the rosy color of your cheeks and contrasted with your eyes. I remember being fascinated, because it was the first time I'd really thought a person could be beautiful.

You ran to me, excited and filled with an energy I still can't comprehend, and I remember seeing the way the bounce in your foot managed to make the petals of the flower shift. You were fluid in your movement even then, like the breeze in the leaves on trees. And I stood and waited because I knew, even without knowing, that you embodied all the powerful and all the gentle forces of nature in your heart.

But there was a flower in your hair, Adora. I remember because I was so fascinated, I fell back when you pushed into me, and I didn't even realize it until you offered me the flower in apology. I took it and pressed it in a book, not because I wanted to crush a gift from you, but because I wanted to have it forever, immortalized in the prime of its life.

Still, you never did believe me when I told you. You loved to tell me that I was making it up. But there was a flower, I swear there was—

You weren't bubbly, or happy, or fluid the day you left me. You were distant, inattentive, restless. I think you didn't realize until it was the dead of night, but I did. I always did.

I spent years studying you the same way you studied combat. Your eyes would pore over the words in a book or the strategies of your opponents and I would watch you. It worked for us. It worked for me. You chased after your passions…

… and I chased after mine.

—but for some odd reason, I can't find it.

It was in a book, that much I know. We hadn't read it yet, and you never ended up reading it but I remember that I did. I agonized over every page and every word because I wanted to find the perfect page for it. Weeks passed and I kept rereading the same words because I wanted to use the most impactful ones to protect the symbol of our friendship.

You took the book from me. You may not remember, but I do, because you took it from me, closed it, and then opened it without looking at it. I remember because I didn't find those words particularly inspiring or strong, but you looked me in the eyes and told me that I had to make then inspiring and strong, or they would never have any meaning to me.

How do you not remember that you wiped away my tears after that? Adora your hands moved softly under my eyes and you made a soft shushing sound because you instinctively knew how to make me feel better. It's like you were just born with that knowledge, and I'd stared at you in awe as my tears dried up.

But it's okay that you don't remember, because I still have the damn flower lying around. It's somewhere near our beds, since I wouldn't have let it get too far from me, so I'll find it and show it to you because it happened —

Sometimes, I wonder if you expected me to be happy for you. When you deflected, changed sides in the war and abandoned all your friends, abandoned me , did you think I would cheer for you? Did you think I'd follow you like I'm a lackey that jumps when you tell me to? Had you convinced yourself that I would resort to living vicariously through your epiphanies and make your results mine too?

Don't get me wrong. I am happy. I'm happy that you saw something in the woods that got you out of the Fright Zone that night. I'm glad that you ran into your new best friends, that you swapped bracelets or swords with them and decided that you would win the war by their side.

But I'm not happy for you. I will never be happy for you, Adora, because you could've done that sooner. You could've walked out of my life just a few years earlier, so that instead of spending my entire childhood under your shadow, I would've had my own moment in the limelight.

I could've been great. I am great. But it's only when you left that I understood that. Your absence is what made me acknowledge and confront my potential.

So I'm happy, Adora. I'm happy because I get to be a wonderful leader, someone that doesn't play by the rules and comes close to victory. You could've left before everyone put their hopes in you, because your betrayal disappointed a lot of people, but it's okay. I forgive you.

Maybe if you'd left earlier, they wouldn't have realized how talented I was.

—except, if it did, why can't I remember where I put the damn flower?

I can still recall everything, from the color of your dress and the pep in your smile as you skipped around but, for the life of me, I can't remember where I put that damn flower. The day is clearer in my mind than my own name, but the one important bit, the one that I really need, is the one that I can't remember. It's like the universe is conspiring against me, because it knows that I'm trying to prove you wrong and it doesn't want me to.

—and I remember, I put it in your pillow.

I took it out of that damn book and shoved it into your pillow, just to make sure the scent of you stayed. Your hair and pillow always smelled like something floral, so I'd hoped that putting the flower there would keep your scent there. Maybe it doesn't make sense, but it did at 3 in the morning when my tears just kept flowing.

—and I know this, because I moved it when I had a nightmare. I took your pillow and held it tight because you weren't there to shush me, or wipe my tears anymore. So I kept your pillow close to my chest and kept praying that it would calm me down, even if you couldn't.

But it didn't work. It didn't work and the pillow became stained with my tears. My mind kept racing, kept conjuring the dark images I was trying to drown out and it became too much. It hurt because it was late at night and I couldn't even stop crying.

So I opened the damn book, grabbed the flower and put it into the pillow. I kept praying the scent would travel. And it did. I remember because I almost cried out of relief, but my eyes were too dry for more tears so I laid there, heaving with relief and hugging the pillow to my chest.

—and I'm pulling the flower out now. It's in my hand except—

—it's not, because it's just little flecks. It's crushed, probably from all the times I've slept on your pillow, which is ridiculous because—

—I spent years not touching this flower, Adora, years, just so it would stay intact but somehow, the one time I need it, really need it, it breaks apart. It's breaks—

—like my heart did, the day you left me.