Archive of Our Own ^beta

The Baudelaires often wondered why none of their friends ever called them when the fire broke out and turned their home into nothing but ashes and smoke. No one reached out. No one sent even a measly letter—not a single word, nothing. As they trudged through their unfortunate journey, one that seemed to be made up entirely of misery and tragedy, the silence of those they once called friends echoed louder than anything else.

But the one who felt it most—the eldest who tried to keep it all together even at times when she couldn't—was Violet Baudelaire.

She didn’t have many friends to begin with. But she had you. And no matter how much time passed, no matter how far she walked from the flames, through the woes that had come her way, she would always wonder why you never called. Why you didn’t send a letter. Why you—her dearest friend—said nothing. Not then. Not ever.

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Violet lived alone. Despite the years she’d spent terrified by the mere thought of being without her siblings—of waking up and not hearing Klaus flipping pages or Sunny mumbling about the next dish she'll dish up from under a blanket—she chose solitude.

Not because she didn’t love them—they have been through thick and thin, the toughest of hells, she loves her siblings to death —but because somewhere along the line, she had learned how to carry her grief in silence. And silence was easier when no one else was watching.

She occasionally visits them. Klaus and Sunny lived together at another block away from her own home. They were doing well, better than their circumstances before, and that's all Violet could ever hope for. If not enough, it was something. She had yet to come of age to actually provide her siblings the life they deserved with the fortune that was left behind for them.

Technically, Violet didn't actually live alone. She has her daughter—well, a child of a brave and compassionate woman—left in her care, as well as her siblings. 

Violet, Klaus, and Sunny had raised Beatrice II as if she were theirs—she already is, in more ways than one, named after their late mother and provided her with love and care—since she was born. 

The eldest Bauldelaire took it upon herself to take care of the child after she moved out from their shared home. She made sure that Klaus and Sunny wouldn't bear the burden of taking care of a baby now that they could finally explore and enjoy the life that was taken from them from the very bad beginning. They were still children after all, even through the rigid hardships they've endured.

As well as Violet were, but as she had promised to her parents, she, in no other circumstances, will and would always take care of her siblings first and that came with giving them freedom from anything else; the space to heal, the room to grow—though little Beatrice is not a burden to any of the Baudelaires—Violet’s sense of duty prevailed among other things. Even if it meant bearing a little more herself, then so be it.

Little Beatrice is fun to be with, in a way she reminded Violet of Sunny when her sister was still an infant just like her. She wasn't as lonely as most would think because of the decision she made. She was happy; for moving out and finding a house for herself, for taking the liberty to care for little Beatrice, and for choosing herself, even when it hurt.

But nothing could've prepared her for reuniting with an old flame.

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She… she saw her again. At a flower shop. She hasn't changed, not one bit. If Violet were to think of something that reminded her of you , it was flowers. Though seeing you again—in the flesh—couldn’t have been just a coincidence.

Violet was currently buying flower seeds to plant in her front porch to make the house that she built more suitable for the infant she was with. Although little Beatrice could not make sense of flowers just yet, a bit of vibrant and fresh colors would do good for the baby's eyes instead of mechanical and operating devices all over the house.

It was a peaceful day, she and little Beatrice were picking out flower seeds, the infant carried to her front, Violet looking at flower seeds packets, moving from one to another. Her eyes grazing at the other flowers that bloomed and were display on the shop, deciding whether she should buy the Petunia seeds packet ones or the Sunflowers or maybe a bit of both—she wasn't good at flowers to begin with so she'll go along with anything that looks pleasing to the eyes—though, finally picking out the Morning Glory ones as the infant was making her grabbing hands at it. Of course, Beatrice II did not know the significance of the flower as she was still a baby.

“You like this, Bea?” Violet said to the infant who's trying to reach for the Morning Glories. “Kregswko.” Which probably meant, “Yes, Vi. Can we buy this one? I think it would look pretty in front of the house.” 

Violet smiled and needn’t further convincing as she let Beatrice grab the seed packets and they turned to the counter to purchase it. “I hope it does so our house can look a lot better.”

“Bravo!” Which Beatrice meant, “It will. I may still be an infant but I think I have a good eye for flowers.” The girl and the infant giggled and purchased the seeds. “Let's just try to buy one for now. I don't know how to plant flowers yet so it's best to be safe than sorry… I remember having a book about gardening around the house.” Violet mumbled to herself as she began walking to the front door of the shop when the door swung open before she could hold the handle, chiming the bell on top of it and the girl—which she presumed to be one as she made a quiet shriek and a “Sorry!” That sounded all too familiar—dropped all her gardening tools on the floor along with some few seed packets.

Violet and little Beatrice helped the— all too familiar —girl, picking up all her belongings and handing them to her to which the girl profusely said, “Thank you! Oh, I'm so glad they didn't break!” As she also put it all back onto a basket she carried. The two other girls could not get a good look at her face as her long hair was framing half of it. 

But when all three of them stood, the girl, carrying her basket full of gardening supplies, she thanked them and froze, her gloved hand—which now Violet realizes that the girl's hand was gloved with a farmer's gloves—barely grazing Violet's hand, stilled in the air as she was about to thank the kind stranger who helped her by shaking her hand.

“...Violet?” The girl said, her sickeningly soft voice evading Violet's ears; just like how she remembered that voice since the last day she saw her and felt her presence.

All along her journey of unfortunate events was a reminder that she would not be able to hear it once more but only the howls of the wind speaking to her with a mimic of her voice that she barely remembers as troubles upon troubles layered in her mind, reminding her that she isn't alone and that she'll stay by her side until the end—a common promise of best friends declaring to one another—but that didn't happen.

Now her dearest friend stood before her, an all too familiar figure, though she had grown in all the right places, she was still the girl that Violet remembered as her best friend. Well, used to be, counting her absence through the years.

It was you.

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“Miamba?” “You know each other?” Little Beatrice asked from Violet's arms that was holding her with a slight tremor. The infant was looking between the two girls.

“No, let's just go Bea.” Violet tore her gaze away from you which lingered longer than she intended to. “Heyvab,” “But she said your name…”

“Violet, wait please!” You cried desperately, tearing off your farmer's gloves, putting the basket down on the floor, and following Violet's figure with the infant that hurriedly left the shop.

“Cheevah.” Which Beatrice meant with a deadpan look at her guardian, “You should stop, you know. She's going to follow us all the way back to our house.”

“But she's nothing to me. Not anymore. Not now. She's just a stranger.”

“Seriously?” “A stranger that's familiar with your name and probably knows you a whole lot.”

“Bea… She was someone once . She was my best friend. She didn't even reach out to me when me and my siblings were at our lowest. She didn't help and was just there for the happy parts.”

“Nonssimus,” “So, you should probably talk to your best friend and rekindle with her. She might have a reason for all of it. Nobody disappears without a reason.”

“Or some people do.”

“Violet!”

With a grumble and a hard push from Beatrice, Violet stopped in her tracks and faced you who was still desperately trying to catch up on her speed of walking. The eldest Baudelaire knew she was acting childish by running away from someone who called out to her, not hearing them out—which is not a polite thing to do but also because this applies to people who left her with no words about their disappearance.

“I… I know you're mad, heck, I would be enraged when my best friend suddenly disappears for no apparent reason but you have to hear me out.” You plead, desperation and guilt evident in your voice. 

Violet relents, of course. Eyes never lie so much that yours was the only ones she was looking at. Looking and finding the truth in the words you're about to say. “This better be reasonable. You practically betrayed me.”

You sucked in a breath and began talking, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear to ease your nervousness. You haven't particularly talked with Violet for a long time and everything that happened made you guilty. “Well… To tell you the truth I hated being away from you, it's been two years since then… and I missed you a lot-”

“Just cut to the point, I've no time for this.” Violet shakes her head, slightly frustrated, and with also her heart pounding loudly in her chest against her will. Some things still stayed the same after years of separation after all; she still felt something for you . Though, of course you never knew. Beatrice gave her guardian a side-glance, meaning that she should be considerate and let the girl talk.

“Right, um, sorry.” You cleared your throat, “You wonder why I never contacted you or reached out to you for two whole years, well, I wish I could've written and told you sooner through letters but my Father never lets me write to anyone while we were away.”

Violet's eyes narrowed in suspicion, “Why? That seems unlikely for him.” She remembered that your father was a happy-go-lucky man, nothing like whatever you are describing. He couldn't have restricted her daughter like this.

“It's because we moved away from here to take me to study in another country. It was abrupt, everything was so fast that I couldn't say goodbye to any of my friends, including you. They found this prestigious school for females and enrolled me without my consent.” She says, her voice tight with guilt, “He didn't let me write to any of my friends because it could lead to distractions and expectations. Father said that we won't be back here after years and getting my hopes up with sending letters to my friends and receiving one in return would be of no use. He says I can just make friends there and that would be it; forget my life here, forget my friends, forget you .”

The eldest Baudelaire listened to her explanation, feeling frustrated that this was the reason of your disappearance, that you had received higher education and were still complaining about it, feeling sad that you had to go through all of that, to live a life you didn't want and walk on eggshells in a different country, and feeling guilty that she had thought you forgotten all about her and your friendship, having a better one in a better country. That didn't seem to be the case as she was encased with a  hug by your all too familiar arms, your all too familiar warmth.

“I'm sorry, Violet. I never forgot about you. You're always on my mind— constantly . I'm sorry for what you've gone through. I've read the past Daily Punctilio papers, of all the treachery you've faced and endured. I'm sorry for leaving you behind, for not coming back sooner if I had known your situation, I'm really sorry.” Her voice, if not already soft enough, was incredibly emotional and was genuinely filled with frustration, sadness, and guilt. The two of you felt the same thing.

You weren't expecting a response from her, of course, and that Violet didn't speak either. She returned your embrace and that was enough for that moment. Just two girls, or perhaps, friends , relinquishing the lost times that they've missed and just stayed in each others’ warmth.

“Gimbo,” Beatrice babbled and the two of you slowly pulled off from the embrace, Violet laughed. “What she meant is that we were squishing her.” And that they were, when they hugged, poor little Beatrice was caught in between but she didn't interrupt the two girls because that was a moment they both waited for a long time.

“Oh, I'm sorry little one… and who might you be?” You were curious about the little baby in Violet's arms. 

“She's my daughter.” Violet said simply, “She's Beatrice Bauldelaire II.”

“She's named after your Mother… Is she your… Daughter?” Of course, you were shocked. You and Violet were practically the same age and an age where having children shouldn't be in the picture yet.

“Well, she's not actually mine.” She notices your confusion immediately, “She's a daughter of a remarkable woman who’s long gone now and had left her daughter in our care.” Hers, Klaus’, and Sunny’s

“Ah, that explains it.” You smile at the infant, “Hello, Beatrice! I'm Violet's best friend, I hope we get along.” 

“Flowers,” Beatrice probably meant as she gave the other girl a toothy grin, “I like her. She smells like flowers and is as lovely as them.” Although you didn't understand the word the baby said, the response “Flowers” were good enough and flowers are often associated with positivity in a certain situation.

Violet smiled with the interaction between you two. “So, what brings you back?” She asked. You haven't really told her why you were back all of a sudden.

“I ran away from there.” You say, as if you were talking about the weather and not about something as drastic as running away back to another country from the other and leaving families behind.

“Excuse me?” Violet's jaw dropped. “...You left?” 

“Yeah… Well, they won't know anyways.” You continued, “The prestigious school I told you about that I attended was a boarding school so they won't know I left the country until it's Christmas when I don't come home.”

Her voice was a little terse, “Then you'll return before Christmas?” 

“Yes.” You trailed off, “I don't really have anything to do here besides go back to our old home and tend to my plants there that I hope the Butler is still taking care of…” 

“Then what's the reason you came back?”

“Let's just say it's like skipping classes but flying over to another country to actually skip classes” You grinned, Violet was not impressed. 

“Really?”

“Really.”

“You're impossible . Why waste a perfectly good education?!”

“Come on now, we're finally together again! I could care less about that pompous school with its pompous students and staff.”

“That's still not a good enough reason!”

“It is, though. You'll get tired of being around people with sticks up their butts.”

“It is not!”

“Flowers!” little Beatrice interjected. You were thankful for the baby's interruption, you didn't want to argue with Violet about this; you knew it was foolish and is one of the most ridiculous thing you have ever done in your life but if you knew you'd have the possibility of seeing your dearest friend again after so many years, you could've come back a few weeks prior, then—though, maybe in the back of your mind, you hoped to see her in this exact unreasonable return. And that you did, after all. 

“What a cute little baby. I wonder, how's your siblings doing? Are they well? I remember Sunny being Beatrice's age when I last saw her.”

“They're doing well. Better than I can hope for, for now.” 

“How are you, Violet?” 

That was a question no one often asked her. Atleast, not directly and sometimes no one ever does. People say that the ones who are oldest are better at keeping it together.

“I think that'll be best talked over coffee.” She smiles at you, “or perhaps tea if you prefer. Would you like to come to my house?”

“I would love to. Tell me everything, Vi.”

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The days passed by a blur. You were back in Violet's life like a flower that bloomed beautifully under gentle rays of the sun. And she, in yours, was like the first rev of an engine—startling, thrilling, and finally in motion. 

You visit her house more often now, greeted by the scent of freshly steeped tea and the faint hum of old lullabies playing in one of Violet's invented music boxes in the background. Beatrice had grown fond of you, often crawling into your lap mid-conversation and babbling about nonsense only Violet could understand. Her house was cozy, comfortable, and you felt as if the two of you were fourteen years old again; happy and content being at each other's side. Some things still stay the same even if you two have grown up.

Violet is ever the brilliant inventor. You fell in love with her creations all over again—you simply just couldn't forget how incandescent she could be in her nature—she truly is remarkable. She shared her blueprints with you, some ongoing projects she was working on for her house, and also the ones that were finished. In turn of her hospitality and everything else, You taught her how to plant flowers properly—this was your nature and you did your best at teaching your friend how to learn the significance of gardening—by demonstrating her the way your fingers moved through the soil, firm but gentle, showing her how deep to dig, how much water to pour, and reminding her that patience was just as important as sunlight.

Violet watched intently, her brows furrowed in focused curiosity, hands mimicking yours with a gentle awkwardness, as if she were creating a blueprint for an invention she thought of and was only beginning to understand.

“You're such a great gardener. I wouldn't be surprised if your room is filled with plants and flowers.” Violet teased.

“Maybe you're right about that. The front and back lawn is not enough to plant everything.” You joked, wiping the sweat that trickled down your forehead, “But of course, greenhouses exist so that's where they're all stored.”

“I'd expect nothing less from you, a greenhouse? You didn't have that back then in your house before, right? Wow , I'd like to see it one day...” Violet sighed, a flutter in her chest. “Are you kidding? Of course you can! Don't be silly, we can even have tea there, or you could even work on your inventions there for a change of scenery.” You said, your voice, as well as your eyes, were filled with excitement, “You, me, and little Beatrice!”

It was first in a while that Violet's smile could be seen reaching her ears, unbeknownst to you as she looked at you, also teaching little Beatrice to plant. Your smile was radiant, your eyes were gleaming, and everything about you was blooming. Her heart was blooming . You were as radiant, as bewitching as any flower.

Don’t be stupid. Don't think of her as anything else but a friend… Though I can't help but marvel at her beauty.

“Violet! Don't just stand there, you have to see Bea plant her first seed!” 

I guess it wouldn't hurt to feel this way. To let it sit in my chest a little longer.

The eldest Baudelaire had also taught you one of the few tricks she kept up her sleeve when it came to working with mechanical devices. It started with wires; those thin, fragile-looking things that somehow held everything together. She showed you how to strip them clean, how to bind them without losing the circuit, and how to tell apart copper from coated illusion.

“Don’t tug too hard. Just enough pressure,” she said, her fingers steady as she guided yours, your hands clumsily mirroring her movements. “Machines are a lot like people. Too much force, and they break.”

You laughed under your breath, “Then I must be very breakable.”

Violet looked up for a moment, her face unreadable, before she softly said, “You’re not. You just need the right hands to hold you together.” 

You didn’t seem to hear her though, too focused on twisting the wire just right, your brows furrowed in concentration. Violet only looked at you for a moment, her eyes lingering at you—how you’re concentrating with a task you weren't quite familiar with but it was a task that was close to her heart —before glancing away, her hands moving back to the scattered parts on the table, as if she hadn’t said anything at all.

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The late afternoon sun shone through the curtains of Violet’s living room, casting everything in a warm, dusty gold. You were seated cross-legged on the floor, humming quietly as you flipped through a book on herbal teas Violet had let you borrow. Beatrice sat a few feet away, coloring on a page half-filled with flower elements and enchanted forests.

It had been quiet for the most part. A peaceful kind of quiet—the type you didn't want to break. Comfortable . Just you and little Beatrice engaging in different things.

But then after a while of companionable silence, little Beatrice coughed.

At first, you didn’t think much of it. It was a small one, like something had caught in her throat. You glanced at her briefly and smiled. “Need water, Bea?”

She nodded, rubbing her eyes.

Violet, who had just entered the room with a tray of biscuits, tea, and orange juice, paused. Her smile faltered for half a second. “Bea, let me feel your forehead.”

Beatrice leaned into the eldest Baudelaire and Violet’s hand gently rested against her forehead. Then also switched her hand to feel her neck.

You saw it—the shift in her eyes. Worry.

“She’s a little warm,” Violet murmured.

“She was kind of quiet today too,” you added, now putting the book down. “Wasn't talking to me with her babbles and mumbles.”

The rest of the evening passed in a soft sort of panic. Not loud, not rushed. Just quiet and careful, she didn't let her distress show but you knew your friend long enough to know how she feels right now. Violet carried Beatrice to her room and wrapped her in a thick blanket. You helped prepare some lukewarm tea with honey while Violet fetched the thermometer.

Beatrice whimpered when the fever reached its peak later that night. Violet’s hands trembled a little as she dabbed a wet cloth against her daughter's burning skin.

You stood beside her, not saying anything at first. Just watching the way Violet’s fingers moved, how her eyes wouldn’t stop scanning Beatrice’s face—the harrowing trouble behind it—She was calm on the outside, but you knew better. Violet was holding it in, the way she always did.

“She’ll be okay,” you finally said, crouching beside her. Your voice was gentle.

“I know,” she said, not looking at you. “It’s just… it’s been a while since she last got sick. She's never like this, she’s such a healthy baby. And it’s just us. There’s no one else to—”

“I’m here,” you interrupted, reaching out to touch her arm. “You’re not alone, Vi.”

She blinked. Her eyes softened, but her lips stayed pressed tight.

“I mean it,” you added. “I’ll stay the night if you want. Or however long you need.”

“…You don’t have to.”

“I know I don’t. But I want to.”

She didn’t answer that. Not directly, anyway. But she leaned a little closer. Let your hand linger on her arm longer than necessary. You didn't mind it.

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The hours passed slowly. Beatrice dozed in and out of sleep, her cheeks flushed, her breathing shallow. You and Violet took turns keeping cool cloths on her forehead and coaxing sips of water into her mouth.

Around one a.m., Violet slumped beside you on the couch. Her eyes were heavy. Her hair was tied up loosely, tendrils curling around her face.

“Is she sleeping better now?” You asked, glancing at the door of Beatrice’s room.

Violet nodded. “Thanks to you.”

“Thanks to us,” you corrected, brushing lint from your pajama sleeve. You offered a tired smile. “You’re a good mother.”

She didn’t respond right away.

Then—“Sometimes I wonder if I’m doing it right.”

“You are. You’re doing it the only way you know how. And it’s working.”

She tilted her head and stared at you for a moment. “You always say the right thing. How do you do it?”

You laughed softly. “No, I don’t. I’m just good at pretending I do.” 

Violet exhaled a quiet chuckle. The air between you shifted—a little warmer now. Softer, like a stilled breath.

You two sat in the silence for a long while. Beatrice slept peacefully in her room, there were no more cries or whines of pain from her, the world was quiet around the two of you for a moment. 

Outside, the wind picked up slightly, brushing against the windows with a low whistle. “She likes you, you know,” Violet said suddenly.

“Who, Bea?”

She nodded. “She’s not this open with many people. You’re… different.”

You shrugged. “Maybe it’s because I bring snacks, her favorite flower, and I'm lovely, as she says.” You snickered.

“No,” Violet smiled. “It’s you.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that. Your stomach flipped—not unpleasantly. Her gaze held yours longer than usual.

“Well, I'm glad that I could provide a safe environment for the little one…”

“...”

“Violet?”

She blinked, as if realizing what she’d said. Her cheeks turned slightly pink. She pulled her knees to her chest, brushing hair behind her ear, feigning embarrassment.

“I’m sorry. I just—when I get tired, I say things without thinking.”

“What do you mean?” Your head tilted in wonder, “there was nothing wrong about what you said.” 

That surprised her. She looked at you again, her expression unreadable. “Yeah. I must just be really exhausted. I don't know what I'm saying.”

You didn’t push. She stayed silent. You didn’t lean in to rest your head on her shoulder in quiet moments like this when you would before—it was a little different now—She didn’t try to turn the moment into something it wasn’t meant to be. But you didn’t turn away either.

Instead, you stood up, reached for a blanket folded over the chair, and draped it over her shoulders. She looked up at you, startled by the gesture.

“You need sleep too,” you said. “Even great inventors such as yourself need rest.”

Her smile this time was quiet. Small, but it was real and raw.

“Stay?” she asked.

“I wasn’t planning on leaving.”

You sat down beside her again, this time a little closer. Shoulder to shoulder. The warmth between you both humming gently like a low engine—familiar, steady.

The night wore on. Violet watched you eventually drift off beside her, head nodding onto her shoulder. You looked peaceful . Beautiful, even when fast asleep.

And for a moment—just one—she closed her eyes and allowed herself to think: Maybe, just maybe, this is something you felt too and something worth holding on to for a bit longer until the dam finally breaks.

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Violet rarely left her house these days—her comfort zone was filled with tools, half-finished blueprints, and the soft routines she had built with little Beatrice—but when you invited her over with the promise of warm tea, fresh air, and finally the sight of your greenhouse, she didn’t hesitate. Her daughter, as always, clung to her side, eyes wide with curiosity the moment your greenhouse came into view.

“Wow,” Violet murmured, walking through the paned glass door that she now noticed was painted with vines and flowers. Her eyes swept over the beds of marigolds, foxgloves, and scattered hydrangeas that dotted the edges of the lawn encased by a tall and wide glass exterior. “It’s beautiful.”

“Not bad, huh?” you grinned, proud at your own creation made with your own diligent hands, then stepping aside to let them in fully. “It’s taken years. But it’s finally something I’m proud of.”

Beatrice crawled toward the flowerbeds, toddling close to the rows of color like she had stepped into a painting. You handed her a small wooden basket. “You can collect the petals that fall off. But not the ones still blooming, alright, Bea?”

She nodded with such seriousness that it made Violet chuckle under her breath.

“You must have memorized the meaning of every plant here,” Violet said, stepping beside you. “It’s like a dictionary in bloom.”

You shrugged, modest. “Maybe not every plant, but most. It’s… easier to speak through flowers sometimes.”

She tilted her head slightly. “Why’s that?”

“Because flowers don’t ask you to explain. They just… exist. And they say so much without needing to be loud.”

That quieted her. She looked back at the garden again, a bit softer this time.

You disappeared briefly into a corner before returning with something small in your hand. A gentle purple flower, petals delicate and half-curled, like a shy smile.

“Here,” you said, holding it out to her. “A sweet violet. Thought of you when I found it blooming this morning.”

Violet blinked, taken aback. Her fingers brushed yours as she took it—almost too careful. Reverent. “Because it shares my name?”

“Well, yeah, also that.” You grinned playfully, “but also its meaning.” You smiled, casual and warm. “Sweet violet. It symbolizes modesty, affection, and… well, enduring love. Not the romantic kind though,” you added casually, not noticing the way her shoulders stiffened, “more like, loyalty. Old souls. People who stick around no matter what.”

You said it without a trace of irony. Without realizing the way her heart caught in her chest.

“Really?” she asked, fingers still grazing the flower. “That’s what it means?”

You nodded. “You’re always so quiet about the things you feel. Like you carry a lot without needing to say it aloud. This flower—” you paused, gesturing, “it just… reminded me of that. Of you. It's one of my favorites too.”

You said it like it was nothing. Like you hadn’t just handed her a fragment of your heart.

There was a silence. The kind that stretched, but didn’t weigh heavy. Violet said nothing at first. Her gaze lowered to the violet in her palm. She studied it like one of her inventions, like she needed to take it apart piece by piece to truly understand what it meant—for you to choose this for her.

“You’ve always had a strange way of saying the nicest things,” she murmured, eyes not meeting yours.

You laughed. “I just study flowers. They do the talking for me.”

Beatrice came crawling back with a handful of petals in her basket, squealing something neither of you could fully catch. You both turned to her, and the moment passed like a soft breeze—there… then gone. She wasn't sure if you even noticed.

But Violet still clutched the flower.

Later, after tea and laughter and little Beatrice’s inevitable nap in the sun-drenched corner of your greenhouse on a picnic blanket, Violet stood beside you. You were pruning the edges of a row of daffodils when she finally said something.

“You really meant what you said about that flower?”

You nodded, not really looking at her. “Of course. Why would I give it to you otherwise?”

“No reason,” she murmured. “Just… wondering.”

You didn’t notice how long her gaze lingered on you. How her thumb rubbed softly across the violet’s stem, holding onto it like it meant something more. Like you meant something more.

She pocketed it later that afternoon. Pressed between two worn pages of one of her notebooks with all her inventions that came to her in spurs of moments. Not for scientific study—what would she even invent a flower with?—but for safekeeping.

She never told you.

But she remembered everything you said.

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The greenhouse lingered in her mind long after she left it.

It was strange, how something so full of colors, life , could stay so silent in her thoughts—how it refused to be loud and yet it refused to be forgotten. That flower—small, simple, sweet —sat pressed between notebook pages now, quiet as ever, and still Violet couldn’t stop thinking about it.

She stood in her bedroom that night, the window cracked open just enough to let in the breeze of the wind. Beatrice had fallen asleep with her cheek pressed against Violet’s shoulder earlier, drooling just slightly as Violet tucked her into bed. The warmth of her daughter still lingered on her arm. But now, alone in the silence of her room, Violet felt something colder. Not unpleasant. Just… hollow. Quiet.

The kind of quiet that asks questions.

She sat at her desk—elbows on the wood, chin in her palm—and stared at the open page where the flower now lay, pressed gently into the paper.

Sweet Violet.

Sweet.

Violet.

She had never once thought of her own name that way before. Not until you gave her that flower, not until you said those things with the kind of honesty Violet had never learned how to hold in her hands.

Affection. Loyalty. Enduring love.

Not the romantic kind.

She repeated that to herself like a line from a manual. Like a mantra. Not the romantic kind . Just a friend remembering her favorite flower and saying nice things.

It should’ve been easy to accept that.

But her heart didn’t work like machines. It didn't click into place the way gears did. It paused. Hesitated. It second-guessed.

Because it wasn’t just about the flower. It never had been.

You had been in her life since the beginning. From shared pieces of childhood in flickers of light, genuine smiles and laughter, Violet saw you and grew up with you. Two years, the two of you were separated, although in the end, the both of you reconnected just as easily as she let her heart in her sleeves. Ever since you came into her life again, she started noticing the way you smiled at things, how your voice softened when talking about the things you love, how you always listened like it mattered. You were always there. Even when everything else felt like it was falling apart—you stayed. Violet was never this vulnerable to anyone other than her siblings and daughter. 

She remembered how you held Beatrice when she cried the first time she fell on the pavement. How you never made her feel like she was failing. How you didn’t look at her like some girl with no parents and a tragic history, a mother who wasn’t ready—but just… Violet. Like she was enough.

And it made her feel—

She didn’t know what word to use.

You never said anything that made it more. You never looked at her like she was anything other than a dear, old friend. And she hated that that should’ve been enough. That it was enough. Though she knew deep down that it wasn't. 

But there were moments—tiny, flickering ones—where Violet let herself hope. The way your hands brushed. The way you offered tea in the evenings without sugar—bitter, like you knew her comfort better than she did. The way you spoke in flowers. She wondered if maybe, just maybe, you were saying things in that language with the word her heart hoped to hear.

She reached for the pressed flower again. Ran her fingers through its petals. She wanted to believe there was more to it, that maybe you meant something you couldn’t say out loud.

But Violet Baudelaire didn’t assume.

She built things. Things with clear rules. With logic. With purpose.

Not… feelings. Not this.

And yet—

Her heart ached. Ached in that old way it always had around you, like something delicate on the verge of breaking but still too sacred to speak of. So she carried it instead. Buried it behind inventions and blueprints and long walks with her daughter.

Maybe she was wrong. Maybe you didn’t feel anything. Maybe it was just a flower. Maybe she read too far into things.

But maybe, if she waited long enough… you’d hand her another bloom. One that meant more. One that meant I see you too.

So she closed the notebook. Tucked it gently away into the drawer under her desk.

And as the wind stirred again through the window, brushing strands of hair from her cheek, she whispered to the quiet:

“I hope you really meant it.”

Then she turned off the light and let herself dream of violets blooming in silence. Of smiles from a girl that felt too far and too near at the same time.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Time passed.

Not all at once. Not in days. Not in weeks. Just… in moments.

In slow mornings when she watched you move through her kitchen like you belonged there. In the way your laugh settled in the walls of her home, lingering long after the sound had faded. In the moments when Beatrice reached for your hand instead of hers, and Violet didn’t mind. Not really. Not when it was you.

She told herself it was fine. That it didn’t mean anything. That she shouldn’t make it mean anything.

But she noticed.

She noticed the way her heart reacted to the sound of your footsteps. The way she leaned in when you spoke, even if it was nothing important. The way she found herself memorizing the slope of your shoulder, the curve of your smile, the sound of your breathing when you napped on her couch.

It was silly. It felt silly. But it wasn’t something she could fix or rewire or turn off. It just was.

And every time she tried to push it away, it came back stronger. Louder. Not in volume—but in weight.

Because it wasn’t just that she liked being around you. It was the way she felt safe when you were around. The way her thoughts slowed down. The way the world felt less sharp, less cruel, less like a ticking clock she couldn’t escape.

You didn’t even do anything extraordinary.

You were just there. Always there.

You helped her rethread a torn sleeve without asking questions. You brought her extra screws from the market because she mentioned them once, off-handedly. You waited until she was ready to talk, and didn’t fill the silence with noise. You planted forget-me-nots outside her window.

And Violet—Violet couldn’t stop thinking about all of it.

She kept those memories like she kept blueprints—folded carefully, hidden in drawers, taken out late at night when no one was watching. Over and over. Examining each one like it would change if she looked at it long enough.

She still hadn’t said anything.

She still couldn’t say anything.

Because to say something meant turning all this into something real. Something with consequences. Something that could break.

So she didn’t.

She let herself love you quietly.

In glances. In half-smiles. In shared tea and the way she never minded when you stayed just a little longer.

She let herself love you in silence.

Because she didn’t know what you felt.

Because she was scared to know.

Because it was enough. It had to be enough.

But sometimes—just sometimes—when your hand brushed hers, when you laughed at something only she would understand, when you looked at her like she was more—

Sometimes, she let herself wonder if maybe… maybe it wasn’t just her.

Maybe it never had been.

What a fool.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

It was already snowing when Violet stepped outside.

Not a heavy kind of snow, not the stormy kind—but the soft kind, the slow kind. The kind that fell like dust, quiet and steady, like it knew how to land without making a sound. The sky was pale. The world felt softer. And yet her heart… her heart felt the opposite.

You were leaving tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

It echoed in her like a hollow sound she couldn’t find the edges of.

You stood at her front lawn, the flowers, plants, and shrubs she built with you were covered in snow, your breath clouding in the air, hands tucked into your coat. little Beatrice had gone inside, tired from the cold, and Violet had told her she'd be right behind. But she wasn’t. She wasn’t ready.

Because this moment—it was the last.

She didn’t want it to be, but it was.

She walked toward you slowly, her boots crunching against snow. The cold nipped at her fingers, but she didn’t care. All she could think about was the weight in her chest. All she could feel was everything she had never said, rising in her throat like the start of a storm.

You turned when you heard her.

You smiled.

God—why did you have to smile like that?

She stopped a few steps away. Looked at you. Really looked at you. Memorized every line of your face, every crease by your eyes, the way your lips curved like warmth even in winter. She wanted to hold that. Keep it. Preserve it like the flower in her notebook.

But she couldn’t keep you.

“I wanted to give you something,” she said quietly.

Your head tilted. “You already gave me too much, Violet.”

“No,” she replied, a little faster than she meant to. “Not this.”

She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small, hand-folded envelope. You took it, brows furrowed in that gentle, curious way she’d always loved.

You opened it.

Inside were three Morning Glory seeds.

You blinked down at them, confusion painting your expression. “These are from the shop. Beatrice—”

“Picked them without knowing,” Violet interrupted, voice a little tight now. “But I knew. I knew what they meant—well, read about it from one of the books you let me borrow about the flower language."

You looked up at her. Your mouth parted a little, like you wanted to speak, but didn’t know what to say.

Violet didn’t wait for you to find the words. She had waited too long already.

“Morning Glories, you know what it means. You always do.” she said, and her voice cracked just a little. “I didn’t plan it that way. I didn’t mean for this to happen. But when she handed them to me that day, it felt like the world knew something I didn’t.”

The wind shifted. The snow kept falling.

She kept talking.

“Three seeds,” she said, voice soft, almost lost to the sound of the wind. “One for before. One for now. One for… whatever comes after.”

She didn’t look at you when she said it. Just smiled, almost like it hurt. “They bloom again and again, but each flower only lasts a day.”

She smiled, faintly—like it cost her something. “I guess I just thought… it was a fitting kind of love. Beautiful, but brief. And never really meant to stay.”

“I thought I could live with it,” she admitted. “Loving you like this. Quietly. Without telling you. Just… staying beside you. Sharing tea. Letting you back in my life after two years of no contact, letting you invade my thoughts, pretending that I didn’t want more.”

Her hands curled at her sides. She looked down at them. Looked at the snow. Looked at anything but your eyes.

“But now you’re leaving,” she whispered, “and it feels like this is the only time I’ll get. So I need to say it. I need you to know.”

Silence stretched between you both. Not sharp. Not cruel. Just still.

You took a breath.

“Violet…” you began, gently.

She shook her head before you could finish.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I know. I knew, I think. I just—needed to say it out loud. So it wouldn’t live inside me like a secret that never ends.”

Your expression was soft. Ache softened your eyes.

“I love you,” Violet said, one last time. Not begging. Not hoping. Just… truth. A truth she had built up and buried and carried and cherished. “And I don’t need you to love me back. I just needed you to know that someone does.”

She smiled then. Barely . It trembled.

“I’ll be okay,” she added, even if she wasn’t sure it was true. “Eventually. I have Beatrice. I have my work. I’ll keep going. But I’ll miss you. I’ll miss you more than I’ve ever missed anyone.”

You stepped forward.

And for a second, just a second, she let herself hope.

But your arms wrapped around her in a goodbye.

Not a beginning. Not a confession. Just a goodbye.

She held you tighter than she meant to. Tried to memorize the shape of you in her arms, the way your coat smelled faintly of citrus and cold air. She tried not to cry.

You pulled away first.

“I’ll write,” you said.

She nodded.

“I hope you’re happy,” she said back. “Wherever you go.”

And then, without another word, you walked down the path, the envelope with the seeds still in your hand. Violet watched you until you turned the corner and disappeared.

The wind moved again. The snow kept falling.

Violet stood there, still and small beneath the weight of everything she had just said. She felt it all—grief and relief and longing and loss. A whole love story that had only lived on one side.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out one last Morning Glory seed, held it between her fingers.

Then, slowly, she knelt and pressed it into the cold earth by her front lawn.

She didn't expect it to grow. It probably wouldn't.

She just needed to plant it.

And maybe, just maybe, when spring came, it would bloom quietly. Silently. Beautifully. The way unrequited things often do.

She stood again. Closed her coat. Turned toward the house.

Her daughter would be waiting.

So Violet walked back through the snow, her heart aching with the heaviness of goodbye.

And behind her, the snow fell on the place where she had planted love that would never be returned.

End.