A single rose can be a single reminder of how I felt about you.

When I first got it, there were four. They were in full bloom. You were always on my mind. You were always there for me. They were beautiful, pleasant to see. As were you.

One by one, the roses died, until I only had one left. I would think of you less and less often, and we you weren't my main priority. But I took care of the single rose. I gave it fresh water everyday, I pruned it everyday. I also tried to get back what I originally had with you. The feeling of happiness, of understanding, everything.

The rose kept wilting, no matter what I did to it. And you kept growing more and more distant from me. I kept trying to get your attention, but you didn't care.

The rose died, and there shouldn't have been any more hope for it to live again. But there was. As with you. You were gone forever, but I didn't want to accept that.

Today, I threw that dead rose out, poured out the water, put the vase back in the cupboard. And I'm not looking back. Not for the rose, and not for you.