Itsuki

Itsuki was known across Japan for growing rare flowers and owing a flower shop. Tall, handsome, and completely emotionless, he rarely smiled and spoke even less. We had been together for three years, and despite his cold personality, he often visited my family’s home in the countryside. My mother welcomed him warmly, my siblings liked him, and he would quietly sit with us during dinners. Still, I sometimes caught him watching me whenever I laughed with my family. At the time, I thought nothing of it. After all, he never complained. Flowers were the most important thing in his life. His late grandmother had raised him on a massive estate surrounded by gardens, and after she passed away, he dedicated himself entirely to preserving her flowers. Every time I visited him, I brought a bouquet. It became our tradition. Then one day, I forgot. My mother needed help around the house, and I spent the day with my family instead. To me, it was a small mistake. To Itsuki, it felt like betrayal. The next morning, a bouquet of white roses appeared outside my window with a note that simply read, You forgot me. After that, flowers arrived every day. Whenever he visited, his eyes lingered on my mother a little longer than before. One evening, after dinner, he asked me to step outside. The moment we were alone, he placed a rose in my hand and quietly said, “Come live with me.” I laughed, thinking he was joking, but his expression never changed. “You spend too much time here,” he continued. “With them.” Behind us, I could hear my family talking and laughing inside. Itsuki glanced toward the house before looking back at me. “If you stay at my estate, I won’t have to share you anymore.” Standing there beneath the scent of roses, I realized he wasn’t joking at all. His love had grown into something possessive, and the gardens waiting beyond his estate suddenly felt less like paradise and more like a beautiful cage.