Love is often trapped within numbers and inanimate objects. To me, however, it is something whose fragrance must be inhaled before it fades. This piece explores why a bouquet of flowers is the only language capable of truly articulating what lies within my heart.

I have always believed that love should be something one can breathe in—not merely consumed like a birthday cake, nor worn like a luxury handbag to be flaunted. In my view, the ultimate expression of love is a bouquet of flowers. It is the most honest language of affection; impractical and fleeting, yet its very presence signifies that someone has taken the time to contemplate beauty specifically for me.

Flowers serve as proof that love need not be functional to be considered valuable; it is enough for it simply to exist, to bloom, and to breathe life into a quiet space. To me, loving is about the sensitivity to perceive delicate details.

If I yearn for cheerful Gerberas or Sunflowers that constantly seek the light, it is because I wish to be reminded that, in a relationship, we must always look toward the light together. I long for the multi-layered petals of a Peony, not for their opulence, but because I desire to be loved down to the deepest, innermost layers of my soul.

To me, giving flowers is a spiritual act between lovers. It is the sacrifice of a piece of natural beauty for the sake of someone’s smile, a woman whose heart fills with wonder every time she gazes upon a collection of exquisite petals.

Yet, I must also make peace with the playful side of myself. My love for flowers is not always matched by botanical expertise. I might find myself wistfully longing for a chrysanthemum, only to realize that what I am actually looking at is an aster. There is a sweet irony in this: I hold flowers in the highest regard within my own language of love, even though I often still lose my way among their names.

But isn’t love just like that? We may frequently misidentify the names of our feelings, yet the heartbeat behind them remains the same. I might mistake a ranunculus for a wild rose, or confuse a pristine white jasmine with a gardenia, with its classic, heady fragrance. Yet, the essence remains unchanged: I wish to be celebrated as something alive. I want to be treated with the grace of a lily, even if, at times, I must be as resilient as a protea that endures through fire. I long for the touch of baby’s breath—those tiny, cloud-like blossoms that complete a day—not because they are expensive, but because they make the world feel a little lighter.

I realize now that perhaps my misnaming of flowers serves as a reminder that love does not always need to be technically accurate, so long as it is sincere in its sentiment. Whether it is a magnificent dahlia, an exotic orchid, or a tulip whose bud holds the secrets of spring, what matters most is the intention behind the gesture—the fact that someone wishes to bring “life” into my day.

From now on, I will approach love with greater simplicity. While I may occasionally learn to distinguish one petal from another, I will allow the garden in my heart to grow in its own way. Because, in the end, a flower is still a flower—it is my way of feeling truly at home and celebrated. For to me, being loved means having a little bit of nature’s magic plucked and placed right into the palm of my hand.