One summer, every school was filled with the atmosphere of graduation season. Walking down the street, you could see students probably for their last time in uniforms preparing to embark on new chapters in their lives. Because my school placed our fine arts department in a separate building, isolated from other classes in the same grade, I ended up feeling closer to the fine arts class one grade above us than to my own peers.
As I prepared to bid farewell to the class that had accompanied me over the years, my dad gave me some pocket money that morning to take with me to the graduation ceremony. On my way to the ceremony, I passed by a flower vendor. I thought, How nice it would be if each graduate could receive a rose! It would make them feel so cherished.
So, I bought 33 roses and handed one to each of the 33 graduates in that class. When the moment for giving flowers came during the ceremony, I was overjoyed, giving a rose to each person, one by one, sincerely wishing them a bright future and thanking them for their companionship over the years.
I thought this gesture was romantic—or at least, that’s what I believed. But as I left the venue, I saw a few classmates tossing the roses I had given them into the trash bin. Shocked, I went up to one of them and asked, “Why did you throw it away?” She replied, “Everyone got one; it’s not special at all.”
My once-joyful heart was crushed. I took the bus home with a heavy heart, wondering if something loses its sincerity just because it’s not unique. When I got home, my dad asked what was wrong. I was just about to explain how I had spent all my pocket money on roses, but he cut me off as soon as he heard I’d spent all the money and started yelling at me: “How could you use up all your allowance in one day?” The story was left untold, and I felt myself sinking under the weight of it, starting to wonder if romance was pointless after all.