“Why... why this?” I ask, not really asking a million questions I want to ask. Why a sunflower? Why here? Why no color, why is it wilted, tipping down? But he knows the way he always does. “You were always my sun, Stella. The center of my universe.” Again, I try to open my mouth, to argue, I think, to tell him that wasn’t true, but he keeps talking. “Without you, I couldn’t find the light. But I also knew I let you wilt. I watched you wilt all those months on tour, watching me spiral with no way to pull me out. I kept you in the dark until you couldn’t stand straight anymore. I needed this
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