Chapter 5: The First Choice

Author's Note: Listen to No One Noticed by The Marías while reading this chapter.

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Chapter 5: The First Choice

The evening sunlight stretched lazily across the horizon, spilling golden hues over the restless waves. The sky, a watercolor of tangerine and indigo, blurred where the sea swallowed the light. A soft breeze carried the scent of salt and warmth, weaving through the air like an unseen melody. The world was slipping into the night, yet the streets still held onto the fading sun, unwilling to surrender just yet.

A few families strolled along the pavement by the beach—laughter echoing in soft waves, children tugging at their parents' hands, their little feet racing ahead. Lovers murmured in hushed tones, leaning into one another as though the universe had narrowed to just the two of them. I walked past them, a silent specter in their world, a shadow moving against the glow of street-lamps that had just begun to flicker awake.

At the edge of the pavement, I lowered myself onto the ground and reached into the small paper bag in my hands, pulling out a handful of seeds. As if summoned, pigeons materialized, one by one, their eyes gleaming with hunger and instinct. They landed hesitant at first—two, then four, then an entire flock descending in quiet synchronization. They reminded me of people, how they moved in clusters, bound by unspoken agreements, finding comfort in sameness. There was never just one pigeon. They always arrived together, just as people did—searching for warmth, for a sense of belonging, for a place where their presence would not be questioned.

I scattered the seeds gently, watching them peck eagerly, their small bodied shifting and fluttering in fluid motion. The way they trusted so easily and the way they came without hesitation—it was almost enviable.

A distant ship emerged from the horizon—its silhouette dark against the molten glow of the setting sun. I rose to my feet, brushing off the dust from my clothes, and walked toward the railing that separated the pavement from the sea. With the bag of pigeon food still loosely held in my hand, I leaned forward, eyes locked on the ship as it inched closer, cutting through the waves with silent determination.

People were easy to understand: their tells, their fears, the small hesitations in their voices, and the way they adjusted their stance when uncertain—it was second nature to me. I had spent years deciphering them: pulling apart their words and piercing them back together into truths they didn't voice aloud.

But understanding was not the same as being understood.

I had spent so long slipping into the spaces people left open for me, adjusting my presence to fit their needs, that no one had ever truly tried to do the same for me. My friends were the exception. Though I rarely voiced my deepest thoughts to them, they were the kindest people I knew. With them, I never felt the need to shrink myself into something digestible; they accepted me as I was, even if they weren't always able to read between the lines. I had learned to be direct with them because they deserved that clarity. And yet, somewhere deep inside, I still yearned for a different kind of connection.

To be understood without speaking.

To be seen without explaining.

To be heard in the silences between words.

A place where I didn't have to adjust, where my presence alone was enough.

The ship continued forward, an inevitable journey toward some distant shore, its purpose clear even if its destination remained unknown. 

I exhaled softly, tightening my grip on the railing.

Maybe one day, I'd find a place like that, too.

The ship's horn echoed in the distance, deep and resonant, breaking through the stillness of my thoughts. I exhaled softly, pushing myself off the trail and walking aimlessly along the pavement. The golden light of the setting sun bathed everything in a soft glow, making the sea shimmer like liquid gold.

As I wandered, my steps slowed in front of a flower shop. There, sitting neatly by the entrance, was a beautiful red bouquet, accompanied by a box of chocolates and a small teddy bear. I stopped, staring at it longer than I should have. How nice it would be to receive something like that. A gift meant someone thought of you—took the time to choose something special.

Picking the right gift wasn't easy—it required effort and care, and who wouldn't want to be thought of?

Just then, a man stepped off the shop, carrying a large bouquet in his arms. I watched as he walked past—the scent of fresh flowers lingering in the air. My gaze returned to the flower shop, where the golden hour painted the petals with a warmth that made them glow, almost as if they were treasures at the end of a rainbow.

Maybe, if no one would give me flowers, I could give them to others. At least, I could spread a little happiness.

I pulled out my small notebook and flipped to a page titled "Different Acts of Kindness". My pen hovered over the paper before I added a new entry: "Give flowers with notes to strangers".

Without hesitation, I closed my notebook and stepped inside the shop, my fingers grazing over the petals as I searched for the right ones. 

Orange and white. 

Warm and inviting—like the feeling of a long-waited embrace. 

Orange is the color of comfort, inclusivity, and unspoken understanding. 

White is the color of pureness, like a quiet promise of hope.

Together, they felt like the kind of warmth I wished someone would offer me. Maybe if no one did, I could offer it to others instead.

I carefully selected nine flowers, letting their colors speak the words I couldn't. 

Nine: my favorite number—the only number that made me feel genuinely special. My birthday falls on the ninth of a ninth month, a number that repeats endlessly, like a quiet rhythm in the universe.

It always felt complete, a whole in a way I couldn't explain. Maybe that was why I wanted to share it.

I pulled out my notebook, tearing small pieces of paper, my pen moving with purpose—little reminders that kindness still existed and simple words—but words I hoped the same way it mattered to me would do to them too.

Stepping back outside, my arms full of flowers, I began distributing them.

The first white flower went to a woman sitting alone on a bench. She blinked in surprise before breaking into a smile, clutching the flower to her chest like a fragile promise.

The next orange flower to a man staring out into the distance—his expression heavy with exhaustion. I hesitated, worried he might misunderstand that I might be pursuing him, but I simply said, "Smile". His lips parted slightly in shock before he accepted the flower, reading the note tucked between the petals. A breath of something lighter passed over his face.

An elderly woman sitting with her family picked a white flower and beamed. Her weathered hands trembled slightly as she held it, her smile deep with the weight of a long life lived.

An old man, resting against his cane in front of his shop, looked at the orange flower that I chose for him for a long moment before nodding. His fingers clutched it tightly as his eyes welled up, and when he reached out to hold my hand, I felt the weight of something unspoken—like he had been waiting for all of his life for this moment for someone to give him a gift.

A little girl, previously crying, quieted at the unexpected gift of a white flower, her sniffles replaced by a small, wondrous smile. She held it close, like a secret only she knew.

A boy standing at the edge of a playground, watching others play without joining, accepted the orange flower hesitantly. He held the note attached to it, his fingers tracing over the words before his eyes shimmered—not just with surprise, but with the kind of tears that come when someone sees you, really sees you, and suddenly, it's safe to let go.

I approached a mother struggling with a fussy child and offered her a white flower. She blinked at me, exhausted and clearly overwhelmed, before taking it with shaking hands. Her lips trembled as she smiled, tears gathering in her eyes like no one had ever acknowledged how hard it was for her before.

As I walked, I spotted a couple strolling side by side. Without hesitation, I plucked a unique flower, which was a marbled blend of orange and white, and held it out to the man.

His lover furrowed her brows, shooting me a look of confusion, maybe even mild suspicion. I simply placed my hand on my hip, raising an eyebrow at the guy in a teasing challenge.

He blinked at the flower, utterly baffled. His gaze flickered between me, the flower, and his lover as if trying to solve a puzzle. I suppressed a grin and gave a small, expectant nod—give it to her.

Realization dawned on him like a delayed sunrise. "Oh—oh!" He let out a nervous chuckle before turning to his girlfriend with an apologetic smile, extending the flower toward her.

The woman, who had been watching warily, suddenly burst into laughter. "You needed a whole stranger to remind you to give me flowers?" she teased, playfully nudging his arm.

He scratched the back of his neck, sheepish but amused. "I was getting to it … eventually."

I shook my head with a smile and walked away, leaving them in their moment—a tiny spark of warmth now blooming between them.

With only one flower left in my hand, I traced my fingers over the petals, exhaling softly. 

This one was mine, wasn't it? 

After all, I had picked nine for a reason—nine, my number, my little piece of significance. 

I walked slowly, letting the thought settle. Maybe I'd keep it, maybe I deserve a little kindness too. 

But just as I was about to tuck it closer, my gaze landed on a couple walking side by side.

They weren't clinging to each other nor lost in conversation—just together. 

Yet, something about the way he looked at her caught my attention, expecting nothing and simply content to exist in her presence.

I stopped.

Glancing down at the flower in my grasp, I hesitated for only a moment before changing my course. Stepping slightly, I approached them, and instead of offering it to him, I turned to the girl and discreetly held out the deep orange bloom.

She blinked, surprised, her fingers barely grazing the petals.

"Give it to him," I murmured with a small, knowing smile. "Show him love. Trust me."

She studied me, then the flower in her hands, before something flickered in her expression: a realization—a silent, unspoken understanding. Her lips parted, curving into an excited, almost mischievous smile as she turned to her lover.

For a second, she hesitated. Then, with a breath, she held out the flower.

His reaction was instant. His eyes widened, pure shock flashing across his face. Then, as if the world had handed him something he never knew he longed for, he grinned—wide, unguarded, and almost boyish. Without thinking, he accepted it and reached for her, pulling her into his arms with an intensity that made her gasp before she laughed, soft and full of something warm.

Over his shoulder, she glanced at me, her gaze filled with silent gratitude.

I only smiled back before turning away, letting them have their moment.

And just like that, the last flower wasn't mine anymore.

It never was.

I walked aimlessly after that, hands slipping into my pockets, my fingers brushing against nothingness. 

No more flowers—no more little gestures to give.

It was funny, in a way. Even now, even when I thought this last one was mine, I still gave it away—like always.

A soft chuckle escaped me, humorless yet resigned.

People's second choice.

Their afterthought.

Their last resort.

It started with my parents. I was never the first to be called, never the one they sought out in moments of joy. My brothers came first, their needs, their dreams, and their voices. By the time they turned to me, it was when they were exhausted, when they had no other options left.

And my brothers …

I had three, yet most of the time, I felt like I had none—they never truly saw me as one of them; I wasn't a sibling but a girl. To them, that made all the difference.

The elder two had always been close, thick as thieves. They shared secrets, went out together, and had their own world where I was just an outsider. If I tried to join, it was met with silence or a brief glance, like I had interrupted something I wasn't supposed to be part of.

They never sought me out just to talk—never included me just because they wanted to. If I wasn't there, nothing would have changed. If I was, I was acknowledged but never truly needed.

And my younger brother? By the time he grew old enough to care, he had already learned from them that I was always last.

But still, my brothers were bonded by boyhood, by silent understanding that I was not like them—that I could never be like them. 

My mother had long ingrained that belief into their minds. I wasn't meant to laugh with them, talk with them, and walk with them. I was meant to clean up after them, to serve them, and to cater to them.

They didn't need a sister; they had each other for that.

I was just the girl in the house—a maid with their father's name attached to mine. 

That was the only difference.

I was expected to be grateful that my father paid for my education, expected to understand my duties: cooking, cleaning, and taking care of the house. These were nothing compared to what they had given me.

And when I tried to be part of them, to joke, to exist beside them as an equal, the looks they gave me said it all: Why are you here?

My relatives?

They always kept me for last. If there was news, I'd be the last to hear it. If they were making plans, I'd get the invitation only when someone else had canceled. Even their check-ins felt like an obligation—only when they had run through their list of people that mattered more.

And friends?

The pattern remained. Friendly, nice, a good teammate—but never the first pick. If groups were formed, if invitations were sent, I was never the immediate thought. Always liked but never chosen first. They all had someone else they wanted more.

Even in work, in school projects, I was their safety net. When teams formed, they skimmed the room for their favorites, their close friends. And when those spots were filled?

That's when they turned to me.

But the worst part?

There was someone who thought of me first. A colleague who had noticed, who had wanted me there—but he never said it aloud. Never fought for me.

During graduation, when the rest of my major colleagues gathered for a group photo, they did not call me. Or maybe they just didn't think so. These were my major's colleagues—people I had spent years with, the few students who had endured everything together, who knew me well. And yet, as they stood together, capturing the moment that marked the end of our shared struggles, no one bothered to look for me.

I hated how I found myself clinging to them when no one did to me. How I stood there, feeling so alone in a crowd that should have felt like home.

But the worst part?

And he—he knew I was present. I knew he did.

But he didn't.

He let it happen. Let me be forgotten.

And in the end, does it even matter if someone thought of you first if they never acted on it? If they never fought to make you their first choice?

Maybe that's why I never had a crush on anyone.

Not once. Not ever.

Because no one ever proved to me that they would fight for me. That they would choose me first.

People liked me, sure. But not enough. Never enough to want me above all else. Never enough to do something about it.

So I never let myself fall for anyone.

Because why should I?

Why should I waste my heart on someone who would never fight for it?

Even the friends I had earned during my university years, the ones I thought I had formed a bond with, had unknowingly made me feel excluded at times. Maybe they assumed I was fine with it—maybe they thought I loved being aloof, but the truth was, I had always wanted them to cling to me as much as I clung to them. 

I had tried, for a short while, to bridge the distance and to get closer, but the signs were there: the subtle body language, the quiet moments where they gathered without thinking to invite me, and the laughter shared just beyond my reach.

It became clear that they didn't feel the same need to keep me close, so I stopped trying.

Yet, when I distanced myself, they noticed. They didn't like it. They reached out, but only just enough—not enough to change anything, not enough to make me feel like I truly belonged. And that, in itself, felt unfair.

I stopped walking, staring at my empty hands, the ghost of a flower still lingering in my grasp.

I wished—

I wished I had been someone's first choice. Just once.

But I wasn't.

I was the flower left behind until someone finally realized they needed it. A last-minute decision, not a first instinct.

And the irony?

Even knowing all of this, I still gave my last flower away.

Because maybe—just maybe—I liked being chosen, even if it was only in the end.

Just as I was about to step away, I heard someone call out my name.

I turned, and to my surprise, I saw her—the girl I had pulled away from the bullies earlier. This time, she wasn't trembling. Instead, she was walking toward me with a determined look, holding a single flower and a small box of chocolates.

"I wanted to thank you," she said, a little out of breath, but her voice was steady. "For rescuing me. I didn't get to say it properly."

I opened my mouth to tell her it was nothing, but she shook her head before I could. "No. It wasn't nothing," she insisted. Then, after a brief pause, she glanced to the side. "Actually… My uncle is the one who noticed you handing out flowers earlier. He said you deserved something too."

My breath hitched.

Someone… noticed?

I swallowed, gripping the flower she had just given me, feeling its soft petals beneath my fingertips. It was strange—how such a small thing could make my heart ache and swell at the same time.

Hadn't I always dreamed of this? Just once, to be seen—not as an afterthought, not as the second choice, not as someone expected to give without expecting—but as a person who mattered.

For years, I had convinced myself that being selfless was enough. That doing good for others should be its own reward. And yet, standing here, with a flower meant just for me, I felt the weight of something I had never let myself admit.

Is it wrong to wish, just for a moment, to be selfish? To be chosen?

I looked past her, scanning the area until I found him. He was standing at a short distance, hands in his pockets, looking shyly away, as if giving us privacy.

He had kept his distance.

He wasn't expecting anything in return.

He just… wanted to make sure I was appreciated.

My fingers curled around the flower, a warmth spreading through my chest. I wasn't sure if I was breathing too fast or if my face was heating up, but I felt exposed in a way I hadn't before—like the moment was too raw, too unfamiliar.

And yet … I didn't want it to end.

I turned back to the girl, clearing my throat. "Thank you," I said, a little awkwardly but sincerely. "This means… a lot."

She smiled, her expression open and light. Then, as if just realizing something, she tilted her head. "Wait… are you alone?"

The question caught me off guard.

I hesitated. Lied, for once.

But I couldn't.

"…Yes," I admitted.

She didn't pity me. She didn't say, Oh, that's sad. She just grinned. "Then come with us!" she declared. "We were just about to grab something to eat! You should join!"

I blinked, caught off guard by how easily she offered it. My first instinct was to refuse—to laugh and brush it off, to say I was busy, to find an excuse.

But that wasn't the real reason.

It was the presence of her uncle: a male companion.

I had never gone out like this before—not outside academic settings—not with a man at the same table. In a community this small, where everyone knew everyone, it would take just one familiar face to recognize me—just one wondering eye to carry the news home.

And then?

I could already hear the accusations, the judgment, and the consequences.

My parents barely listened to me—they never had. 

They had always listened to others first—neighbors, distant relatives, and even strangers—before they listened to their own daughter. Whatever explanation I could give wouldn't matter. The moment someone whispered about seeing me with a man, that would be their truth. My voice wouldn't stand a chance.

I hesitated.

As if sensing it, she clasped her hands together, eyes practically pleading. "Please?"

Something in me wavered, but I don't know them; they are strangers.

"I can't," I said, my voice as steady as a locked gate.

Her smile hesitated, like a candle flickering in a draft. "Oh… I just thought—"

"It's not about your uncle," I cut in, arms crossing over my chest like armor. "I just don't do things like this."

She blinked, searching my face as if looking for a crack in stone. But there was nothing to find.

After a beat of silence, I exhaled, the words slipping from me like loose change I hadn't meant to drop. "I never really had close friends in school. Every time I did, it ended in a fallout."

A simple truth, sharp and clean as glass.

Her brows pulled together. "That sounds… lonely."

I twirled the flower between my fingers, watching the petals sway with each delicate turn. It stood alone—an odd number, out of place among the even ones. Without thinking, I pointed at it.

"I used to be alone like this flower," I murmured, my voice quieter than the wind. "And when I finally had a friend… I was just a replacement."

She looked at me, confusion flickering in her eyes, but I didn't stop.

"They tried to mold me into someone else, shape me into the shadow of their old friend. But that wasn't me." I let out a soft scoff, shaking my head. "So I cut it off before they could prune me into something I wasn't."

Slowly, I lifted my gaze to meet hers, my grip firm around the flower, as if it carried all the weight of what I was about to say.

"I wasn't naive after that," I continued, my voice firm, leaving no room for doubt. "At university, I stuck with people out of convenience, just as they did with me. I let them use me as a stand-in, a poor imitation of someone they had lost—but that didn't mean I accepted it. No."

I shook my head, tightening my fingers around the fragile stem. The flower felt weightless in my palm, but the past never did.

"I distanced myself, even when I was in the middle of it all. That's why, in the end, I only have two people I call my closest friends."

Silence settled between us, but it wasn't empty. It was filled with understanding, with the quiet hum of things unsaid.

I turned toward the horizon, my eyes catching the streaks of gold and amber melting into the sky. Lifting my hand, I pointed at the setting sun, its edges dissolving into the sea like ink spilling across a page.

She followed my gaze, staring at the fading light.

"And yet," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper, "even when I'm with them, I still feel lonely."

The wind carried my words away, but their weight remained.

I sighed, the breath carrying something unspoken—something I had long made peace with.

"But still… I love being alone." I glanced at her again, my expression unreadable yet certain. "Alone, but in good terms with others. It's safer that way—safer than suffering from betrayal, safer than wasting tears on people who were never yours to begin with."

She swallowed, as if absorbing every word.

I looked at the flower one last time, then extended it toward her. Her fingers hesitated before wrapping around the stem.

And that's when I realized—this flower was never meant to be mine.

I had been given it, yes, but the one who needed it wasn't me.

It was her.

"You still have time ahead of you," I said, softer this time. "So don't rush it. Live. Enjoy your life at its fullest, and let friendships find you. The right ones always will."

Her grip tightened, holding onto more than just petals.

"You will bloom the same way this flower did," I told her, my voice firm, certain. "With the right friends."

And as the last light of the sun dipped beyond the horizon, I turned away—leaving the flower in her hands, and the past where it belonged.