Little thing💋

The Wilted Rose
Once, a shy young man named Haru fell deeply in love with a kind-hearted woman named Aoi. Every day he watched her from afar, too nervous to speak. Finally, he worked up the courage to offer her a single rose — dark, almost black, because he thought it looked unique and beautiful, just like her.
Aoi smiled warmly and accepted it, which made Haru’s heart soar.
But then his grandmother appeared, grinning ear to ear, and proudly declared to everyone within earshot:
“He is my grandson! Isn’t he handsome? So talented! He’s going to be a doctor, you know!”
Haru wanted to disappear into the floor.
Days later, emboldened by the first success, he tried again. This time he brought another wilted-looking rose (he’d kept it in his pocket too long, nervous). Aoi’s eyes lit up anyway, and they held hands for the first time. Haru thought maybe, just maybe, he could do this.
Then Grandma showed up again — this time with a cane, limping dramatically for effect — and started telling Aoi every embarrassing childhood story Haru had ever begged her to forget. Aoi laughed politely. Haru died a little inside.
The third attempt was supposed to be perfect. Haru bought chocolates and the most beautiful black rose he could find. He waited until Grandma was supposedly napping. He found Aoi, took a deep breath, and began his confession.
Grandma burst onto the scene like a hurricane, cane raised triumphantly, shouting, “MY GRANDSON IS IN LOVE!”
That was it. Haru snapped. He stormed off, tears in his eyes, convinced he’d never escape his grandmother’s well-meaning sabotage. In a fit of despair, he pulled out his phone, ready to delete every photo of Aoi, ready to give up entirely.
But then the phone buzzed.
A new message from Aoi.
A single photo: her hand gently holding the first wilted black rose he’d ever given her, now carefully pressed and preserved between two panes of glass like a treasure.
Below it, just four words:
“I kept it.”
Haru stood frozen in the street as his grandmother hobbled up behind him, confused why he was crying.
A week later, the four of them — Haru, Aoi, Grandma, and even Haru’s exasperated father who’d been dragged into the chaos — went out for tea. Grandma told the same stories. Haru blushed the same shade of red. Aoi laughed the same gentle laugh.
But this time Haru reached under the table and held Aoi’s hand anyway.
Some roses are meant to be wilted, a little bruised, a little awkward.
They’re the ones that last the longest.
And sometimes the loudest, most meddling, cane-wielding grandmothers in the world…
are secretly the best wingmen you never asked for.