“He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me,” I mutter to each petal as I pick them off, one by one, and drop them to the ground. My heart sinks: the last petal that remains lines up with my turn to say, “He loves me not.” How can this be? I crumple the flower and pick another one. “He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. He loves me not.” I don’t stop picking until I get to a flower that tells me what I want to hear, “He loves me!” “He loves me!” I say as I pull the last purple petal from the yellow center. See? I knew he did.
