Will You Be My Galentine ? ❤️🌹✨
I used to think receiving flowers was something that only happened in movies.
You know the kind of scene,
soft golden lighting, a gentle breeze that somehow always knows when to move, slow motion footsteps, someone smiling like they’ve been waiting for that exact moment. The kind where music swells in the background and everything feels perfectly timed.
It never felt like something that would happen in my real, ordinary life.
In my world, flowers were things you saw in other people’s hands. In Instagram posts. In carefully curated Valentine’s captions.
I always told myself it wasn’t a big deal. That flowers wilt. That gestures are overrated. That I didn’t need something so cinematic.
And then this year, I received flowers for the first time. Which was totally unexpected.
A cuboid box.
My mom was holding it. My sister was recording me because “the person” had asked her to. I was already confused. Why was everyone acting like this was a surprise reveal?
On the box, written in the most elegant handwriting, were the words:
“From the best friend you can’t return or exchange.”
I froze.
My mind refused to process what was happening.
I kept staring at the handwriting, the beautiful curved cursives, the elegant capital letters that looked like they were carved out of an ordinary gel pen, yet somehow carried something majestic about them.
There was something familiar about it.
Painfully familiar.
I had seen that handwriting before. In notebooks. In small notes. In the margins of shared memories.
And suddenly, it struck me.
I shouted a name.
And then I opened the box.
Inside was a handwritten letter.
A teddy bear.
A bouquet.
And of course, a Dairy Milk, because some traditions are sacred.
I have never experienced something like that before.
I laughed. I laughed so much because I didn’t know how else to react. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t in front of my family. So I hid it behind smiles and dramatic reactions and teasing comments.
But inside, something softened.
This was my first time receiving flowers from someone.
And that someone made me feel loved.
Cherished.
Wanted.
You might think this was a lover.
No.
It was my best friend of six years, the one I am now walking into our seventh year with.
Six years of growing up together.
Six years of shared secrets, shared struggles, shared dreams.
Six years of watching each other become new versions of ourselves.
She stayed through every obstacle and hardship I was facing. Through phases where I doubted myself. Through nights where everything felt heavy. Through academic stress, emotional breakdowns, identity shifts, and growing pains.
She saw the awkward versions of me.
The insecure versions.
The overconfident versions.
The quiet versions.
The chaotic ones.
And she stayed.
So when she handed me those flowers, even if it was through a delivery app and not a movie-like scene, it felt deeper than any cinematic moment ever could.
It felt steady.
It felt intentional.
It felt like history.
This wasn’t about Valentine’s Day.
It was about being known for six years and still being chosen.
It was about someone who has walked beside me through every version of myself deciding that I was worth a bouquet, a letter, and a box that said I couldn’t return or exchange her.
And maybe we need to normalise this.
Giving flowers to your best friend on Valentine’s Day.
Or calling it Galentine’s Day and celebrating the love that doesn’t always look romantic but lasts longer than most romances.
Why should only lovers receive grand gestures?
Why shouldn’t the person who has held your hand through every stage of your life deserve roses too?
The first time I received flowers didn’t come with slow motion or background music.
It came in a cuboid box.
With my mom holding it.
My sister recording it.
A Dairy Milk inside.
And handwriting I would recognise anywhere.
And honestly?
It didn’t need anything else.
It just needed her.
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