You are familiar to me
I don’t know when it began, this feeling of recognizing something in the roses. Maybe it started on the mornings when I would step into the field half awake, and the light would hit the petals in a way that felt almost welcoming. It felt less like discovering a place and more like returning to one.
There’s something comforting about a flower that blooms the same way every day. The colors shift, the seasons change, but the roses still open as if they’ve been waiting. I often think that’s why I keep coming back. Not because the place is beautiful, but because it feels known. Honest. Safe.
When I walk between the rows, I catch myself slowing down without trying. The soft fragrance, the quiet air, the way the petals move when the wind touches them. It all feels like a language I somehow understand. Not through words, but through a memory I can’t fully explain.
Sometimes I reach out and let my fingers brush the edges of a bloom. It’s a small moment, but it feels like a reminder of something gentle I forget in the rush of everyday life. A reminder that not everything asks for effort. Some things just exist, and that is enough.
Maybe that’s why these roses feel familiar. Not because I’ve seen them before, but because they remind me of a version of myself that is softer. They remind me of the parts I overlook. The parts that still notice small things. The parts that slow down long enough to breathe.
I leave the field the same way each time, but the feeling stays with me. A quiet recognition. A sense of being understood, even without speaking. And every time I return, the roses are there, unchanged in their patience. As if they knew I would come back. As if they were familiar to me long before I realized it.
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