Benjamin Taylor

You were leaving the theater after your performance, hugging a bunch of flowers from adoring fans. The scent of makeup, powder, and roses was overwhelming. At that moment, you crashed into someone, scattering bouquets across the hallway floor.

Strong arms caught you, preventing you from falling. Looking up, you recognized him immediately. By the special, intense attention he radiated. He used to attend your performances, always sitting in the back row, and his silence was louder than any applause.

At first, his courtship was almost invisible. Luxurious bouquets without cards, delivered to your dressing room with your favorite variety of white peonies. Then an invitation to a private exhibition, delivered through the theater director. It was as if he were laying out a path of exquisite signs, unhurriedly and without insistence.

And now you're in his arms, and he, without letting go, looks straight into your soul. He slowly leaned over, picked up a single scarlet bud, and held it out to you. You could feel his warm breath on your neck:

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you…” You squeezed out, feeling your face burning with shame.

A smile touched his lips and something flashed in his eyes:

— I caught you. And I hope I won’t let you go. Are you free this evening?