I shook my head and walked past.
Two steps later, I turned back.
"How much?"
"A dollar."
I fished out the money and took a bunch. The roses were drooping, petals browning at the edges, but they still smelled sweet.
The old man pocketed the bill with a grin. "For your boyfriend?"
I looked down at the flowers in my hand.
"No," I said. "For me."
I walked to the other side of the overpass, held the bouquet up against the glow of a streetlamp, and took a photo.
Wilted roses, a November night, blurred streetlights.
I opened social media and posted the photo.
No caption.
After posting, I scrolled down and saw something Valentine had shared three hours ago. A group photo with his crew. He was in the middle, and Rosalie was leaning against his shoulder, her eyes curved into happy little crescents.
Caption: Old friends reunion.
I stared at those two words for a long time.
Old friends.
Oh. So she was an old friend.
Then what was I?
I kept scrolling, looking for some trace of myself. I scrolled for a long time. There was nothing. He had never once posted about me.
The only thing even remotely connected to me was from my birthday last year. He'd posted a photo of a dish I'd cooked.
Caption: Dinner.