Buying flowers back when we were dating wasn't for any grand reason. Passing by the flower shop on my way home from work, my feet would just slow down on their own, and if one of the flowers sitting inside the glass caught my eye, that was enough. I didn't intend to give them deep meaning or turn it into a special occasion. I just wanted to see your face softly smile for a moment when I walked in holding them. That brief look on your face—standing in the entryway, taking the flowers from my hands, and smiling with a slight tilt of your head while I took off my shoes. Those few seconds made me feel like my whole day was neatly wrapped up.

So even when you found the flowers to be a hassle, I wasn't deeply hurt. It was an emotion far too quiet to be called disappointment. Ah, so you don't really like this. That was how I took your reaction. I didn't feel like you were wrong, nor did I think I had made a mistake. I simply understood that this choice wasn't right for us. Flowers were a nice thing, but they weren't essential between us.

Stopping the flowers after that was easier than expected. Calling it easy doesn't mean there were no feelings involved. Rather, that might be why I could settle it even faster. There was no reason to keep doing something you didn't like. Nor did I think I had to push myself to prove my love. I was comfortable acting according to your reactions, and that came naturally to me.

As time passed after we got married, I started noticing you occasionally pausing in front of flower shops. On the way to work or during weekend walks, there were moments when your eyes lingered briefly inside the glass. Your steps didn't come to a full stop, but they slowed down just for a second before moving on again.

I saw that scene several times, but I never said anything. Asking why would have been easy, but I didn't want to bring it up for no reason. I knew that tastes could change, but at the same time, I was cautious that my past impression might prove wrong all over again. I felt that if I stepped forward first and brought something up, things might fall out of sync again.

So when you brought up the subject of flowers, my heart stirred strangely. I was glad, but at the same time, nervous. I wanted to figure out if this was real or just a passing thought. I worried that if I walked in holding flowers with an excited look on my face for no good reason, only for you to wear an ambiguous expression again, it would be a mistake. I already knew it—I wasn't being cautious because I was afraid of getting hurt, but because I didn't want to get things wrong again.

That's why I didn't buy them right away. Instead, I asked. If it was okay to do it again. Rather than what it was that you came to like, I needed certainty that it was all right for me to do it again. It wasn't just that I was happy you came to like flowers; I liked the feeling of returning to a place where I could bring flowers home to you once more.

It was closer to permission. A signal that I could resume an action I had quietly set aside in the past.

I always think like this: love is not about the magnitude of expression, but the boundary of permission. How close I am allowed to get, and where I ought to stop. Only within the line you tell me is okay, I want to remain by your side.

Neither overflowing nor lacking. Just as much as you nod your head, I want to walk at the very same pace.