The cover made by Sandhya is winning entry for Graphics Category, the story is a runner-up entry for Story Category and this is the winner overall for A bag full of love - Valentine's OS contest in QH forum.
Graphics - Sevenstreaks | Writer - ExoticDisaster | Theme - Valentine Mishap
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The Unexpected Bloom
In Apartment No. 30
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Asad double-checked the florist's card, his brow creased with concentration.
"Apartment 30, Mrs. Qureshi.”
He adjusted the heavy bouquet of crimson roses, their velvety petals whispering against each other. Rose Day. A tradition he found utterly ridiculous. For him, it was a day of forced romance, orchestrated by the calendar. Mr. Qureshi, his notoriously demanding boss, had specifically charged him with delivering these perfect specimens to his wife, Mrs. Qureshi in apartment number 30. He shook his head, things he has to do for promotion.
Walking inside the building, he squinted at the apartment numbers, finally locating number 30. Asad raised an eyebrow. The apartment number—30— shone brightly in bold, block letters, overwhelmed by a jungle of painted butterflies, smiling suns, and quirky characters in every imaginable colour.
He smoothed his collar, and pressed the doorbell.
A few moments later, the door swung open to reveal a woman who somehow managed to look both startled and amused. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame a face that was captivating even without makeup. She was wearing a paint-splattered oversized t-shirt and what looked like very comfortable pyjama pants. She had a paintbrush in her hand, and a smattering of teal paint adorned her cheek.
"Yes?" she asked, her voice a melodic whisper.
Asad swallowed, momentarily forgetting his practiced delivery.
"Uh, good morning... I... I have a delivery."
Her eyes widened slightly. "For me?"
Asad held out the bouquet.
"Yes, ma'am. Roses. For... Rose Day."
She stared at the blooms, her expression a mixture of confusion and something that looked suspiciously like wistful sadness.
"There must be some mistake. I... I wasn't expecting any roses."
Panicking slightly, Asad launched into his rehearsed speech, written by his boss.
"Mr. Qureshi wishes to express his appreciation to Mrs. Qureshi for her… unwavering support and… and to subtly remind her of the anniversary trip he’s planning." He inwardly cringed. He sounded like a robotic parrot.
Her brow furrowed further.
"Mr. Qureshi? Anniversary trip? I am not Mrs. Quereshi."
“Isn’t this apartment 30?” Asad asked, confused.
“It is, but Mr and Mrs Qureshi live in apartment number 13.”
Asad checked the card again, his heart sinking. Perhaps the florist had written the address wrong, and he didn’t crosscheck it.
"I am sorry," he groaned internally. "I... I seem to have made a terrible mistake. The apartment number… I was supposed to deliver these to Mrs. Qureshi…" He trailed off, feeling like a complete idiot.
She looked at the roses, then back at Asad, a slow smile starting to bloom on her face. It was a small smile, hesitant, but it transformed her entirely.
"Well," she said, her voice regaining some of its earlier lilt. "It seems Rose Day has decided to play a little trick on us both," she reached out and tentatively touched one of the velvety petals. "Thank you," she added softly, her eyes meeting his briefly. "They're beautiful."
He stared at her, speechless. She was radiating a captivating charm, a lightness that drew him in. He glanced down at the roses, their crimson blooms seemingly pulsating with life. He imagined Mrs. Qureshi, his boss's wife, a prim and proper woman with a penchant for beige, receiving the bouquet. And then he looked back at the woman in front of him, her dishevelled hair and kind eyes somehow more captivating than any perfectly arranged floral display.
"Perhaps... perhaps you can keep them?" he stammered. "I mean... I'll explain the mix-up to Mr. Qureshi, but... they clearly mean more to you than they would to Mrs. Qureshi." The words tumbled out before he could stop them.
Her smile widened.
"Are you sure?"
Asad hesitated for another moment, battling with his sense of order and duty. But her smile was infectious, and the air crackled with an unexpected energy. He took a deep breath and made a decision. He couldn’t explain it, but the thought of these roses bringing a little happiness to this stranger felt infinitely better than delivering them to some entitled socialite.
"Yes, absolutely sure." He then took a step back, remembering his boss, his job, and the impending wrath. "I... I really should go. But... Happy Rose Day, Miss…."
“Farooki. Zoya Farooki.” Zoya held the bouquet close, her eyes sparkling.
“Asad Ahmed Khan.”
"Happy Rose Day, Mr. Khan. And thank you. You've made my day."
"You're welcome, Miss Farooki." He replied, feeling a surge of warmth. "I should probably…deliver to the correct address now."
"Of course," Zoya said, her eyes twinkling. "But before you go, would you like a cup of tea?"
He looked at his watch. He was already behind schedule, and Mr. Qureshi wouldn't be pleased. But the temptation to linger, to learn more about this enigmatic woman, was too strong to resist.
"Actually," he said, surprising himself, "a quick cup of tea sounds perfect."
Zoya stepped back, gesturing him inside. The apartment was filled with sunlight, and the aroma of paint hung in the air. Books lined the walls, paintings in various stages of completion leaned against furniture, and a half-finished sculpture sat on a small workbench. It was a far cry from the sterile, corporate environment he was used to.
Asad followed her into the living room, his heart pounding in his chest. He was about to have tea with a stranger, a woman who had received a bouquet meant for someone else. He was breaking all the rules, defying all expectations. And yet, he couldn't help but feel a thrill of excitement, he was experiencing.
"Make yourself comfortable. I'll put the kettle on."
Asad watched Zoya move around the kitchen with a graceful ease, the sunlight catching the highlights in her hair. He couldn't help but feel a strange sense of calm wash over him. He was usually so focused on efficiency, on adhering to schedules and expectations. But here, in this sunlit kitchen, surrounded by art and the aroma of brewing tea, he felt a lightness he hadn't experienced in a long time.
As they sipped their tea, they talked. Not about work, or Mr. Qureshi, or even the roses. They talked about art, about books, about the beauty of finding inspiration in the ordinary. Asad found himself opening up, sharing his long-held dreams of writing poetry, a secret he had buried deep under layers of practicality. He had never felt so comfortable, so understood, so… himself, with someone he had just met.
Asad glanced at his watch. He had been here for nearly an hour. A pang of guilt shot through him. He needed to deliver those roses, face Mr. Qureshi’s potential displeasure, and get back to work.
"Zoya, I should really be going. Thank you for the tea, and for… everything." He stood up, feeling a reluctance he couldn't quite explain tug at him.
Zoya walked him to the door, her green eyes sparkling with amusement.
"You're very welcome, Asad. And don't worry about the roses. I'm sure Mrs. Quereshi will understand. After all," she added with a mischievous grin. "They did end up in the right hands, didn't they?"
Asad smiled, a genuine smile that reached his eyes. He knew he had to deliver roses to their intended recipient. But as he stepped back into the hallway, the scent of roses and cinnamon clinging to his clothes, he also knew that something had shifted within him. Something unexpected, something beautiful, had bloomed in the wrong apartment. He couldn’t quite name it, but it felt like hope, wrapped in the intoxicating scent of possibility. And for the first time in a long time, Asad felt a stirring of something new, something… romantic. He had to see Zoya again. He wanted to see Zoya again. The thought sent a thrilling shiver down his spine. He had a feeling Rose Day, that he had always found nonsense, even with its initial blunder, had just become interesting.
As he turned and practically fled down the hallway, leaving Zoya, the wrong woman, with the wrong roses, but perhaps, in a strange twist of fate, with the right feeling. He still had a mess to clean up, but somehow, the impending lecture from Mr. Qureshi didn't seem quite as daunting anymore. He had inadvertently created a moment of unexpected joy, and that, he realized, was worth more than any promotion.
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