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“Come over,” Ink says, not even looking at Paa, as though inviting Paa over is not a huge deal to her. Ink lives in a studio apartment ten minutes from their campus, all by herself, and Paa has never been there once, on the account of never being invited there as opposed to Ink being over to her room on more than one occasion. Paa had always assumed that her apartment is something private to her, but now she is crouched in front of Paa, asking her to come over. It probably means nothing.
“To your house?” Paa asks, just to check. It probably means something.
Ink chuckles, turning to look at Paa with a raised eyebrow, her hair swishing with the movement of her head. “Where else?” she asks.
Paa, a little breathless without any effort, looks away and says, “Okay, sure!”
Being inside Ink’s studio apartment is somehow less disconcerting than the mere thought of it. Paa looks over the scarcely decorated studio apartment, its walls grey and bare, the table and the dust gathered there, no colour in sight. Things seem to be hastily thrown away or covered so the apartment has a semblance of tidiness. Paa almost gapes at Ink but schools her face quite well—she doesn’t want Ink to think that she is being judged. But still, “Why do you not have any colour here?” Paa asks, “don’t you feel bored when you look at your home?”
Ink merely laughs, hooking her arm around Paa’s neck. “I am only ever home to sleep,” Ink says, “I don’t think I spend enough time here to feel bored.”
Paa blinks. “But,” she says, “what about a pop of colour somewhere?”
“Why?” Ink says, tapping Paa’s nose. “Do you want to decorate it for me?”
Yes. Paa can’t imagine anyone who’d want to spend time in this dreary place. She already has a virtual mood board ready on how she can decorate the place if given the chance. Flowers on the centre table. Colourful cushions on her couch (that doesn’t look like it’s ever been used). Maybe a purple rug underneath the small coffee table separating her couch from the wall with the smallest television known to mankind. “No, no,” Paa says, “I’m not judging the way you live. I’m just happy you invited me over.”
Ink’s lips curve, her smile lopsided, as she taps Paa’s head. “You’re the only one who has seen this place.”
“I consider myself lucky,” Paa smiles up at Ink.
Ink’s gaze softens. “I do, too.”
***
Somehow, going to Ink’s home becomes a regular occurrence. Paa isn’t sure how, exactly, that came into play—the first time she’d been there, they’d ended up spending all the time talking and eating, none of it working. Then at the end, Ink had said, come over tomorrow, we can work then and Paa had said, sure, helpless and not wanting to counter that offer. It’s not a date, Paa knows that, and yet she wears her best sweater to college and spends an hour doing her hair and face.
They ended up finishing the work—that should’ve taken only one visit—in four whole visits, sharing a meal and talking, for the most of it. After that, another work that Ink could ideally handle all by herself came up, and Paa volunteered to help her, resulting in another week of visits by Ink’s apartment.
Today, however, there should’ve been no reason for Ink to call her over again, without any thin-veiled excuse of wanting to work with Paa, but she’d looked at Paa earnestly, her eyes sparkling with anticipation, held Paa by her wrist, and asked, “Will you come over tonight? I’ll cook.”
And Paa, helpless and hopelessly in love, had agreed.
Usually, they directly go to her apartment from the university but this… this was new. Almost as if—
“Are you going on a date?” Pat’s voice breaks her out of sighing at her outfit in the mirror.
“What? No!”
“Are you sure?” he asks, finally looking up. “That’s the third outfit you’ve worn in the last thirty minutes.”
It wasn’t a date—it can’t be a date because it wasn’t specified, nowhere did Ink mention the word date even though some social cues pointed to it, but Ink was Paa’s only close friend and she would’ve told Paa if this were a date. Paa doesn’t mind, though. Spending time with Ink, Paa realises, is the easiest thing in the world. She doesn’t have to think much, doesn’t have to second guess everything she does or says because she knows that she will be accepted just the same. Her apartment is still devoid of any colour, but Paa sees an attempt, in one solitary colourful frame on a bare wall with Ink’s family, and a hot pink lamp by the sofa.
“Hiya,” Paa says, throwing herself on her bed. “There is no way that this is one. I wasn’t asked on a date. It’s just dinner.”
Pat looks suspicious, but shrugs his shoulders and returns to his phone. “If you say so. Who are you meeting?”
There is no tangible reason that she doesn’t want to tell Pat who exactly she is meeting, but she mumbles out, “It’s with the journal club,” and flees the room before any probing questions can be asked.
***
It’s not a date, Paa knows that for sure, but when she is walking over to Ink’s house, she spots a newly opened florist shop at the corner of the road and picks up a bouquet of purple hydrangeas. Just for a pop of colour, she reasons.
It’s not a date, Paa doesn’t have to reiterate, but her mind still whirrs and her heart still beats out of her chest when she thinks about presenting Ink with the flowers. She is close to pretending that they aren’t for Ink, but these flowers were intended for Ink and keeping them to herself would really not be ideal.
It’s not a date, but when Ink opens the door, dressed in a sharp shirt and high-waisted pants and regards Paa with blatant adoration, Paa’s heart flutters helplessly inside her ribs. She holds the flowers in front of her, half in self-defence, half in the offering. “I wanted to give you a flower,” Paa mumbles.
“So you got me five?” Ink’s mouth gapes open in surprise, a breath whooshing out of her lungs. "Are these truly all for me?"
Paa nods, her hands suddenly clammy without effort as she bites her tongue so as to not blurt, yes, Paa wants to say, everything is for you.
It’s truly not a date, but Ink somehow pulls out a chair for Paa, and fills her glass with sparkling water and serves her food, sits in front of her the way she always does, but this time, there is something weighted in their conversation—something simmering right under their skin, just one itch to colour their skin pink. Ink keeps looking at the purple hydrangeas, now settled in the middle of her room, with nothing short of warm zeal.
It’s not a date (Paa knows, and knows, and knows) but when Ink finally bids her goodbye, after opening the cab door for her, Paa suddenly, desperately wants to kiss her good night. She wants to refuse the cab after all and ask Ink to walk her home, and then Paa can do the same and then maybe Ink does the same until they realise they don’t want to be parted. She wants to call Pat and tell him that she can’t make it home tonight. Paa wants and wants and wants. Instead, Ink pats the back of Paa’s head, whispers good night, and closes the door of her cab.
“How was the date?” Pat asks the minute she enters their room.
Paa can’t quieten the gentle thudding of her heart, still beating at the rhythm of Ink’s name, and she says, “Not a date,” and refuses to answer all the follow-up questions Pat has.
***
The next day, Paa passes by the florist once again. She longingly looks at the red roses hoping that she gets the courage to buy those one day but latches onto the red tulips instead.
Ink looks at the flowers, surprised when Paa holds them out and somehow even more amused when Paa bashfully defends herself: “You seemed to really like the flowers last night, and your apartment could always—”
“—use some more colour, I’m aware,” Ink finishes the statement for Paa and accepts them sincerely. Paa feels blood starting from her core all the way to her hair, feeling hot and cold at the same time. She simultaneously wants to burrow her face in the crook of Ink’s neck and run so far away—both so that she never has to feel herself burning up in these feelings again. Paa meets Ink’s eyes, who smiles at her, nothing short of warmth, and decides, maybe this is enough, maybe she can bask in these emotions and not be burnt by them.
***
Paa had hoped, most ardently, that the flower-giving would be a two-time thing. She was never happier proven wrong.
This time, Paa has five blue violets wrapped neatly in a yellow bouquet paper and Ink looks at her as though Paa invented the flowers herself. Their fingers brush and Paa feels the one point of tether keeping her connected to the world as opposed to floating away under the weight of Ink’s gaze. The next time, just three days later, Ink is presented with gardenia flowers. Five days after that, Paa brings up white Dittany flowers, all at the cost of her heart threatening to beat out of her chest and bringing her to ruin.
The visits to Ink’s home only get more frequent—only for work, after that night—and Paa sees the proof of her flowers bringing a little bit of colour to Ink’s home in each of those visits. Some of the older bouquets are silicone-preserved and hung up on her walls. Paa thinks she keeps getting bolder and bolder every time she buys a new bouquet, but the boldness doesn’t really translate in front of Ink.
She only has enough courage to offer her heart on the plate taking the shape of flowers in front of Ink and having her accept without knowing what it means to Paa. She thinks of stopping this entirely—not wanting to present those flowers at all, but she passes by the florist almost regularly, especially on the days that Pat is not with her, and even though taking that route means an extra five minutes added to her routine, Paa can’t stop herself. Not when Ink always looks surprised, a little amused, but most importantly radiant—like the reflection of the gentle sun on calm waters—when Paa turns up with yet another bouquet.
Ink’s smiles are enough for Paa to keep bringing her flowers. She is conditioned to think of Ink every time she sees a flower, now. So, she does the only thing she can, translates her feelings into the flowers she sees and holds them in front of Ink. She means, here is my heart on the platter in front of you, hold it gently. And Ink reverently holds the flowers, her fingers hovering over the petals before gently brushing them with her knuckles, cherishing them entirely.
***
Three summers ago, on the hottest day of the year, on the most immemorable day for Paa, she had stomped and begged so she could be allowed to accompany Pat and his friends—consisting of Ink who somehow finds herself at the epicentre of all of Paa's stories—to the nearby park. Ink had stayed with her through the entirety of the picnic, finding a cool spot underneath a big oak tree, as she read a novel. Paa had laid right beside her on her stomach, feeling the safest and warmest she ever remembered feeling. There were wild forget-me-nots growing from the bushes around them dabs of colour in the verdant green of the earth around them.
“P’Ink!” Paa had called, inching closer to Ink until their elbows brushed and held out the forget-me-nots, in her palm, “for you!”
Looking at Paa’s sunkissed face, Ink’s world had tipped and tipped until it was held in the warmth of Paa’s palms. “For me?” she’d asked.
“For you,” Paa had ascertained and rested her head on Ink’s shoulder. “I’m giving these to you, and that means, you must never forget me, never ever!”
“Paa,” Ink had said, resting her head on Paa’s. “Forgetting you wouldn’t have been possible even without the presence of these flowers.”
Paa had been too naive to understand why those words made her stomach feel as though it had wildflowers growing and curling, her heart suddenly wanting to jump over into Ink’s palms where it would be cradled and cared for.
***
When Ink opens the door to her home for Paa three days later, she wears a sweater and dark blue jeans and a resin pendant with a forget-me-not flower embedded right in its centre, clashing horribly with the rest of her outfit, but somehow, it fits, as though it has always belonged there.
“Paa,” Ink greets, keeping her door wide and open for her to enter. “No flowers today?” she teases.
Paa feels a blush creep onto the back of her neck, and bends down to pick a bouquet; this one is hand-curated by her, a red rose in the centre and surrounded by violets, tied with a black ribbon.
“Oh,” Ink says, breathing out in disbelief. She clasps her hands on top of Paa’s holding the bouquet, and ultimately, holding Paa.
“Paa,” Ink calls, not looking at Paa as though calling her name in a manner that makes Paa’s name sound seraphic is not a big deal at all, as though it doesn’t matter that with Paa’s name safe in Ink’s mouth, Paa wants the entirety of her to be consumed by Ink. When Ink looks up, her eyes shining and full of hope, Paa’s breath catches in her throat. “Do you know what this means?”
“What?” Paa asks, breathless without any effort, as though standing on the precipice of something huge—one flick and she’ll go down tumbling.
“These flowers,” Ink says, “do you know what they symbolise? Do you know what all the flowers you’ve given me symbolise?”
Paa remains silent, hoping, desperately, that none of them means something horrible. She’d told the old lady at the florist shop that these are for someone special, it isn’t possible that they’d mean something extremely horrifying, but the way Ink looks at her—full of hope but also hints of fear, makes her think otherwise.
Ink shakes her head and pulls Paa inside, their hands still clutched around the flowers, around each other. She pulls her towards all the bouquets lined up on her wall, starting from the very first one that Paa had given her—the purple hydrangeas that look like they’ve lost just a little bit of colour despite the preservation process that they must’ve gone through.
“You must know what these flowers mean, don’t you?” Ink says, desperation creeping at the edge of her tone, her casual facade all thrown away.
“Purple hydrangeas, a deeper desire to understand someone,” she says, pointing at them. Then, pointing at the red tulips, she says, “To express deep love,” then, pointing at the blue violets, she says, “these symbolise affection and faith.” Then, at the white gardenias, “These represent secret love,” her voice cracks. “These dittany flowers,” she says, “they symbolise love and passion.”
Paa is then pulled towards her centre table, the yellow acacias she’d sent two days ago out on display. “The yellow acacias mean secret love, too,” Ink says, finally sitting on the sofa, bringing Paa closer. “And do I need to tell you what the red rose means?”
Paa shakes her head, half in disbelief, half in surrender. If the flowers mean what Ink says it means, and if Ink is incredibly unhappy as a result, then it must mean… it must mean—
“I like you,” Ink says, simply, gripping Paa’s hands tight. Paa’s head whips up, meeting Ink’s eyes.
“What?” There is no way that Paa heard Ink right. It almost sounded as though she said—
“I like you,” Ink says, squeezing their hands together again, and then leaving them entirely. Paa’s hands fall on her lap, limp. “I like you so much,” she says. “Your silence tells me that you didn’t know what the flowers meant.”
“I didn’t,” Paa finds her voice, clearing her throat. “P’Ink, I really didn’t.”
“It’s okay,” Ink says, a small, sad smile creeping on her lips. “As you can see, I am hopelessly in love with you. At first, I thought this was just a manner in which you were expressing how you felt. But after a while, I realised that maybe it wasn’t. Having you give me these flowers, without you knowing what they mean has been the sweetest kind of torture.”
“P’Ink,” Paa says, lurching forward to hold Ink’s hands between hers. She can’t fully comprehend what Ink just told her, but she can’t clarify her horrible misconception. “Every time I saw pretty flowers, they reminded me of you. Every time, P’Ink. I really didn’t know what they meant. But, I would’ve given you the same flowers even if I knew what they meant.”
“What?”
“I am hopelessly in love with you, too,” Paa blurts out, squeezing her eyes shut.
There is a stunned silence that follows Paa’s confession.
“You’re what?”
“It was a way in which I was expressing how I felt. Just not in terms of symbols. Or maybe in terms of symbols—I truly left it up to the florist after a while. She probably knows more about you than a lot of my friends. Anyway, my point is that you didn’t misunderstand anything. You were right. I am in love with you, and I can’t keep pretending otherwise.”
Paa’s chin is slowly tilted up. She opens her eyes to meet Ink’s. “You are?” Ink says out loud, incredulous yet lucent.
“Why do you think I kept giving you flowers?”
“That’s what I told myself. I truly believed our feelings were mutual until I realised that there’s a high chance you didn’t know what they meant.”
“True,” Paa says. “But they weren’t just flowers for me.”
“What did they mean to you, then? When you were giving it to me?”
“You’d smile when you saw them,” Paa shrugs her shoulders. “I want to keep doing everything that would make you smile.”
“You already do,” Ink says, leaning closer, only a breath away. She twirls a strand of Paa’s hair around her finger and tucks it behind her ear, gently cradling the back of her head. Paa can hear the pounding of her heartbeat in her skull. “No one makes me smile the same way that you do,” Ink says. “In return, can I keep all your smiles to myself?”
“P’Ink!”
“Can I?” Ink whispers. “Can I?”
Instead of answering, Paa leans in and presses a kiss on Ink’s cheek.
Ink gasps a laugh out, before regarding her with a questioning gaze. At Paa’s nod, they meet halfway, their lips pressing together, a sigh of relief swallowed in each other’s mouths. A burgeon of flowers covers the whole world as their love blooms, soft and slow.