Sometimes it’s not that you don’t care enough to say something.
It’s that you care too much.
You open your phone, knowing you should reach out. You want to acknowledge the moment, whatever it is, but the words feel wrong before you even type them. Too formal. Too emotional. Too neat for something that isn’t.
So you pause. You delete. And eventually, you send flowers instead.
People still send flowers because words can feel like they need to be perfect. Timed right. Said the right way. There’s always the risk they’ll land wrong or make things heavier than they already are. Flowers don’t wait for any of that. They just arrive. And there’s something quietly comforting about that.
A bunch left at the door doesn’t demand a response. It doesn’t ask someone to feel better, reply thoughtfully, or acknowledge it straight away. They can be noticed hours later. Moved from the hallway to the table. Properly seen when the light hits them the next morning.
That’s why flowers show up after arguments, when “sorry” feels too small and explanations feel like excuses. Why they’re sent to new parents who don’t have the energy to text back. To friends who are hurting in ways you don’t want to name out loud. Flowers arrive in moments that are tender, complicated, and undefined.
They don’t try to explain those moments. They don’t tidy them up.
Flowers don’t pretend to fix anything. They don’t last forever. A petal drops. A stem bends. And somehow that honesty makes them feel right, because most feelings don’t last forever either.
There’s also something grounding about choosing something physical in a very digital world. A real thing that takes up space. Something you have to water, move, live alongside for a few days. You can’t scroll past it. It quietly exists with you.
That’s why people still send flowers.
When words feel awkward, risky, or like they might ask too much of someone, flowers let us show up anyway. They say: I’m thinking of you. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to do anything.
And often, that’s exactly what’s needed.
Not the perfect words, just presence.

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