I used to leave flowers in the window, like my own secret signal to the world.
It was a small thing, something no one would think twice about. Just a single flower in a jar, sitting on the windowsill. A daisy, a rose, whatever I could find. It didn’t matter what kind. What mattered was that it was there.
It felt comforting, like a silent message saying I was okay.
No one ever told me to do it. It wasn’t some agreed-upon code. But in my mind, it became one. A quiet reassurance to anyone who might be watching, anyone who might care.
But on days when I forgot, I got scared.
What if someone noticed the missing flowers and came looking? What if they knocked on the door? What if she answered?
She would find out what I was doing.
And I knew what happened when she found out things.
So I made sure to always place them there, even on the worst days, even when I could barely move from the exhaustion of existing under her roof. Even when my hands shook, and my body ached, I found a way.
Because the flowers meant I was still here.
Still holding on.
Still surviving.
I still put flowers in my window now.
Now that I am safe.
Not because I need to. Not because I’m afraid anymore.
I do it because I want to. Because I remember what it meant back then, how it made me feel less alone.
And maybe, just maybe, someone else will see them.
And they’ll know.
