The buds bloom vibrantly. A cold breeze of wind gently caresses my face. The sun shines. I faintly smell ripening apples.

It only succeeds in making me feel worse. The truth is, I have held many things in my hands, and I have lost them all.

I stare solemnly at the small garden that’ll wither and die when I leave. I look at the crop of yellow daffodils, the symbol of new beginnings.

I inhale sharply. Whatever happens will happen. I’m being forced to leave my home, my fortune, shut up, and comply. All because I’m different. Because I’m small. Because I’m weak.

I pluck one daffodil.

Rebelling isn’t always in the big things but the little. I will live and do as I’m told. But I’ll hold on, no matter what.

To this flower, to my hope.