He was just a lad—freckled, a bit clumsy, with a haphazardly tied school tie and shining eyes that looked at her as if no other girl in the world existed. Spring had only just begun. Snow melted in puddles on the schoolyard, and tiny yellow flowers peeked shyly from the thawing earth.
*”These are for you,”* he said, holding out a little bunch. Primroses.
*”Will you be my sweetheart?”* he whispered, so softly the breeze might’ve caught the words before she did.
They weren’t exactly friends, but they’d chat sometimes—about nothing much. He’d often walk past her house, calling out just to wave at her.
She laughed—startled, flustered. All the other girls in class boasted about roses, some brought carnations from home, others had enormous tulips. And there she was, holding these odd little flowers no one ever called pretty.
*”Primroses?”* Her friends snorted into their hands. *”Couldn’t he afford proper flowers? How embarrassing!”*
She didn’t know what to say, so she tucked them into her bag. Said nothing. Ran off with her friends. Didn’t even glance back—though she wanted to. What if they noticed?
He stopped walking past her window after that. She waited without admitting it, even to herself.
She avoided him after that—so he wouldn’t call out, so their eyes wouldn’t meet.
She felt rotten about it afterward. If *rotten* was even the right word.
Then, one day, he was gone. His family moved to another city. She only found out from those same friends. Never saw him again.
But sometimes, on warm spring evenings, she swore she could still hear his voice—*”Will you be my sweetheart?”*—and see those tiny yellow petals in his palm.
Years passed.
The girl became a woman—lovely, self-assured, clever. She went to art school, then university, and one day found herself at a lecture on English porcelain.
The lecturer placed a delicate teacup on the stand—gold trim, soft yellow flowers painted along the rim.
*”Royal Albert’s Friendship collection, 1970s,”* he said. *”These are primroses. In the language of flowers, they mean first love—affection that lasts through the years. Only a rare soul gives these. If given with love, their warmth never fades. Like sunlight touching your heart.”*
Her chest tightened. Suddenly, she was back in that schoolyard—the boy’s awkward smile, his warm hand offering something no one else saw the worth of.
She closed her eyes, smiling through tears. *”I wonder where you are now… out there, in another city…”*
And as she stared at that cup, it hit her—that little boy had given her something no one else ever could.
His small bouquet had become an invisible thread, glowing through time.
And just then, she liked to imagine—somewhere far off, beyond streets and strangers’ homes—he was drinking tea too. Maybe remembering the girl he once offered spring sunlight to, cupped in his hands.
Maybe… his cup had primroses on it.
Some remember daisies. Others, a seashell or a pebble. The little things no fortune can buy back. The things you can’t repeat, or replace, no matter how rich you get.
