The sun dipped low over the meadow, painting the sky in soft hues of pink and gold. A gentle breeze swayed the wildflowers—delicate daisies, bold poppies, and clusters of lavender—each one bending gracefully in unison. They belonged here. They fit.

But not me.

I stood alone, taller than the rest, my leaves jagged, my stem coarse. My petals, if they could even be called that, were not soft like theirs. No butterflies danced around me, no bees lingered to taste my nectar. I was not beautiful, not desired.

The wildflowers whispered as the wind passed through them, their voices light and musical. They didn’t have to say it—I already knew. I didn’t belong.

Still, I remained, roots digging deep, refusing to wither, refusing to disappear. Because even weeds have a purpose. Even weeds can grow strong.