I awoke to find a bouquet where my heart ought to be—pulsing, chromatic petals radiating uncertain intentions. Each blurred bloom whispered a clause of an unratified treaty between dream and terror, its dotted filaments tracing sentences too delicate for daylight. I tried to pluck a single color to anchor myself, yet every hue bled into another, as though the spectrum conspired to erase distinctions. The flowers studied me with their hollow cores, patient archivists of my hesitation, cataloguing every thought I attempted to conceal. I realized then that the arrangement was no gift; it was an interrogation—floral, silent, merciless—asking whether I would bloom into accountability or wilt inside the soft contagion of my own evasion.