It becomes a routine—walking into the flower shop, sitting in the same stool beside the counter, watching him attend to his flowers. Just like when I first sat down under the tree in front of the shop, it becomes a routine.

He said he didn’t mind having me around, that it was nice to have company once in a while. It made me wonder if he had been lonely before he spoke to me.

“Yes,” he says, sitting next to me with his head resting in his palms. “This is my mother’s shop—I’m only here to take care of it until she comes back.” I nod, my eyes moving from one end of the shop to the other.

“Do you like flowers?” I ask him, trying to keep the conversation going. I would never admit it, but I liked the sound of his voice; it made me feel calm, safe, and a little happy.

“Not at first,” he says. He grabs one of the withering tulips from the vase on the counter and starts to pick the petals off, letting them fall onto the counter. “When I was young, I used to hate them, how my mother would spend more time in this shop than with her own son. That was before she started bringing me along, saying she needed help. After that, I found out why she liked flowers so much.”

I stay silent, but nod along to show I’m listening. I can feel his eyes on the side of my face and almost hear him smiling. “What about you?” he asks. “Do you like flowers?”

I hesitate, thinking about his question. “Yes,” I say, my voice quiet. “At least I think I do.”

“What’s your favorite flower?”

“Do I have to have a favorite flower?”

“Everyone has a favorite flower.” My eyes tear away from the tulips and I look at him. He’s smiling and suddenly, I feel calm once again. “Mine are sunflowers.”

“Sunflowers?”

“Sunflowers.”

“Why?” I ask, curious as to why he would choose such a cliché flower.

“Because they’re bright,” he starts. “They’re bright and symbolize joy.” The boy pauses, thinking. “Sunflowers follow the sun,” he continues. “They follow it all day long, knowing they’re safe as long as the sun is out. When night falls, the flowers face east—that’s where the sun rises.” A warm smile rests on his face as he picks the last petal from the tulip, twisting the stem between his index finger and thumb. “They wait for the sun to rise again.” He looks at me, his eyes twinkling. “Isn’t that amazing? To put so much faith into something you don’t know will be here tomorrow?”

Silence falls between the flower boy and I once again as I think about his words. The flowers follow the sun all day long and wait for it’s return when night falls—even if they don’t know if the sun will come out the next day, they stay waiting. “That is amazing,” I say.

“Now you.” He tosses the tulip’s stem into the garbage bin on the other side of the counter before turning his attention towards me. “Your favorite flower?”

I look away, suddenly embarrassed. “I don’t have one,” I say. “I’ve never payed attention to them.”

The boy lets out a laugh. “That’s okay,” he says. “I can always change that.” I’m about to respond before he stands up at the sound of the door creaking open. He greets the customer that walks in (I do the same) before rushing towards them and asking what they needed.

I don’t have a favorite flower. It bothers me that I can’t have something as simple as that and I don’t understand why. But then again, I’ve gone through most of my life with barely anything; I doubt I’ll need something like a favorite flower.

But the thought of him having that, seeing the way his eyes sparkled when he spoke of it—it made me wonder if I could ever talk about something so passionately, so happily.

I didn’t need a favorite flower, but I wanted one. I wanted the same happiness he had while speaking of his sunflowers.

I wanted that spark of joy, even if it only lasted for a second.