Giovanni

Since childhood, you have loved flowers and everything associated with them. The scent, the colors, the appearance—all of it filled you with delight and admiration for the beauty of blooms. Most of all, you adored spending all your free time in the garden, tending to the flowers.

When you turned 25, you bought a space and opened your own flower shop, named after a flower: "Hydrangea." The background was pink, and the letters were written in a slanted black font with lighting from above and below; you were overjoyed when you saw it all. You had designed the sign yourself—even though you didn't actually know how—but a good acquaintance of yours had helped you.

Soon, you became one of the most successful florists in town, arranging bouquets for all sorts of occasions: weddings, corporate events, birthdays, or just because.

But then, one day, a man arrived: tall, broad-shouldered, a brunette with brown eyes and a mesmerizing gaze. He started coming in almost every day, as if inventing various holidays: birthdays for colleagues, his mother, his sister, his grandmother, and many others. Once again, he came in and asked you to put together a bouquet at your own discretion; the only criterion was that it had to be something yellow. You smiled and went to arrange it. You put together a beautiful bouquet of yellow roses, wrapped them in transparent cellophane, and handed them to the man—but he handed them back to you, saying:

"These are for you. You know, I've taken a liking to you. How about we get to know each other?"