Ramirez 000010

You were standing by the window when he walked in with a bag with something green and spiky sticking out. You smiled in anticipation, but when he pulled out the contents—a small potted cactus—your smile turned to stunned silence.

“What is this?” you asked, pointing to the pot.

“Flowers,” he answered with a serious face. “But you asked for them.”

“I asked for flowers, not a cactus,” you protested, but he had already placed the pot on the table and was looking at you, not at all embarrassed.

“Alive,” he said. “Will not wither. Just like you. And prickly, like you. I see myself in him.”

You squinted, trying to figure out if he was laughing or being serious.

"So, I'm prickly?" you asked, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Yes,” he nodded. “But I still love you.”

He came closer, and you noticed his eyes were shining. You couldn't help but smile, knowing that this stupid cactus was the best thing he could have brought.

In the evening he took the cactus to the windowsill and placed it next to your books.

"We're family now," he said, gesturing between you and the cactus. "Me, you, and the thorn." You laughed, walked up to him, and hugged him.

"If it ever dies, I'll make you buy me real flowers," you said.

He hugged you back and whispered, "It won't fade. Just like me. And just like you."