Dear Peter,

You've probably noticed by now that I've stopped writing the dates on these letters. To be honest, does it matter when I'm writing them? I'll send them all at the same time, anyway. And these days, every hour just blurs together and time seems to be in a race with itself. 

I miss when I used to be able to feel the seconds as they'd pass me by.

*** 

"So, what's your plan? You'll write a biography?"

I ran my fingers across the soft pedals of a delicate lilac, wondering how on earth Zoya was going to choose from so many beautiful options. Her wedding was a month away, and one of the last arrangements left was to pick flowers for the theme.

The florist shop that we stood in was huge, every corner occupied by flowers of all sizes, shapes, and scents. 

Nana would've loved it.

You know, I went to visit her grave yesterday. I went with Mom and Dad. And it's weird because when we stand there in front of her, no one needs to speak. The silence is loud enough. We can feel each other through the beating of our hearts and her presence is enough to fill every void. 

Mom and Dad left earlier than I did. They knew that I liked to have my time alone with her. Even though she's  been gone for ten years now, I feel like she's with me every day. 

We never forget, Peter. When someone touches our hearts with the tentative fingers of their souls, even for a second, we never forget them.

I hadn't realized that I was standing there, smiling to myself like an idiot instead of answering Zoya's question until she pinched my arm.

In response to my incredulous expression, she simply shrugged.

"I feel like I'm talking to the flowers here and not you. Where is your head at these days?" 

She continued walking in front of me, her tired eyes full of concern.

I sighed. That was a question that I did not know the answer to.

"Not a biography, per say. Honestly, I don't know. I'll figure that out once I learn more about him."

She nodded in agreement and kept scanning the rows of endless flowers, until she gasped, grabbed my arm, and dragged me across the shop.

In the corner there sat a small bouquet of hydrangea, tinted the lightest of all blues, so simple yet beautiful in a way that they stood out from the rest.

She looked up at me and raised her eyebrows, asking me a silent question. I nodded eagerly, giving her my silent response.

"Four weeks, Lucy, and then my life changes forever."

A wistful look swept across her features, followed by a concerned one, but I didn't question it.

"Maybe we can invite Peter to be the flower girl," I joked, nudging her arm.

We both shared a laugh at the thought of you in a dress, walking down the aisle with flowers in your hand.

"You're crazy, do you know that?" Her lips widened into a mischievous smile.

"Not your worst idea, Lucy. And that's saying something."

***

Stepping back into the arena felt strange. It was different this time.

Before, I was here to watch a show. I didn't know what to expect.

Now, excitement and curiosity swirled like a tornado in the pit of my stomach. I was here on a mission.

The arena seemed smaller now, and I couldn't quite explain why. I had a camera slung around one shoulder and my backpack hanging off the other. My fingers remained wrapped around a yellow tulip, identical to the one I had in my hair.

My eyes scanned the endless rows of seats and bleachers, until finally they landed on you.

You were lost in your own world. It was just you and the punching bag; nothing else mattered.

You threw fist after fist at the poor thing, to the point where I started feeling bad for it.

I could've cleared my throat or called your name, but I didn't. I watched in fascination as your dark eyes remained focused on the bag and your feet moved to a certain rhythm, every impact eliciting a light grunt from your throat. This time, you were actually dressed. A forest green shirt hugged your body, but it was drenched in sweat.

That was always my favorite color on you. 

I don't remember how long I'd stood there watching you. It seemed as if I'd learned more about you in those few minutes than I ever had before. The way you maneuvered your way around the bag seemed almost like a dance, the movements swift yet patterned. Your hair fell in front of your eyes, but you didn't bother to move it.

"Are you just going to stand there, or will you say something?"

Your words startled me. Without turning around, you sighed and removed the gloves from your hands and threw them aside.

I don't know how you'd noticed me, but I guess that's one skill you have to master as a boxer. Being alert of your surroundings.

If only I'd learned to do the same...

When I remained silent, you turned around and raised your eyebrows quizzically. 

"Well?"

I walked down the steps that led me to the ring.

Ducking under the ropes and onto the platform, I smiled.

Your stone expression faltered, but only for a bit. I was disheartened by how hostile you were. I thought I had made progress the night of Daisy's wedding, but it seemed like the walls I had burned down were now back, stronger than ever.

"I brought this for you."

I took a deep breath and held out the tulip in my hand, urging you to take it.

But you stared at it for a few seconds, then at the one in my hair, perhaps contemplating your decision, before hesitantly taking it from my hand.

"What's this for?" 

You brought it up to your nose and smelled it like it was the most foreign object you'd ever seen.

"It's fake," you noted.

I laughed, the sound bouncing off of the walls and being beckoned again by our ears.

"It'll lighten up the place a little," I spun around, taking in the arena and its dark seats, the black walls, and dim lighting, "it's a little dreary, no?"

"And plus," I continued, acknowledging your observation, "It'll last longer since it's fake. I don't suppose you have the time to take care of it." 

You snorted and loosened your grip so that the flower drifted towards the ground, making no impact but silent sound.

I think you expected me to be scared.

I wasn't.

"If you're going to be like this the entire time, I don't think we can do this."

My eyes widened and I tilted my head to the side only slightly.

"Like what?"

I wasn't trying to challenge you. I was confused. All I was doing was being Lucy, but apparently, you didn't like that.

"Unbelievable," you muttered, just loud enough for me to hear, "Seven weeks. That's all you get with me. After that, we never see each other again. Got it?"

Your gaze avoided mine and you ran a hand through your hair, clearly frustrated.

It was at that second when I realized that someone had hurt you. Not in the boxing ring, but someone had hurt your heart. It made me think back to the night when you'd been arguing with Charlie and he'd mentioned a "her."

I nodded, giving you a thumbs up.

'Seven weeks is more than enough,' I thought.

I made my way to the corner of the ring and slung my backpack off of my shoulder. I was taking the contents out (tripod, camera, journal), and I hadn't noticed that you were watching me.

"Is that really necessary?" You asked, looking at the camera.

I nodded. "I might do a video portion, you know, see the great Peter Grayson in-action type of thing."

Judging by the disapproving look on your face, you didn't think that was an amazing idea like I did.

Sheepishly, I put the camera and tripod away, leaving just a journal and a pen. I could make that work.

You picked up your gloves and started strapping them to your hands again. Before I could ask a question, you began speaking.

"Six years. I've been professionally boxing for six years. My father was a boxer, a rather good one. No, I'm not as good as him, and no, I'm not willing to answer any questions about him." 

You had returned to the punching bag, hitting it between almost every word. It was like you were speaking to it rather than to me. 

I wasn't sure how to respond. I guess people asked you those questions often. I was lost in my own thoughts when you stopped moving and stared down at me.

"You're not going to write that down?" You questioned, confused by my daze.

I shook all of the thoughts out of my head. 

I nodded, but instead of writing down the years you'd been boxing, I wrote down the word "red."

The color of your boxing gloves.

"Do you always wear those gloves?" I leaned forward and set my journal and pen down, placing my chin on my hands, which were knit together, my elbows resting on my knees. I probably looked like a child. 

"No. Why don't you ask me normal questions like anyone else? Like how many matches I've won or lost?" You asked between punches, but something about your tone told me that you didn't mind it.

"Because I'm not like everyone else, and I can easily Google that information."

Again, you stopped training and turned to face me. Something changed. Without taking off your gloves, you sat down across from me. 

My heart raced with anticipation. I was getting somewhere.

"And what makes you so special? The fact that you wear those silly flowers in your hair?" 

You were so irritated. Maybe you had a right to be. Who was I to waltz into your life and ask you all of these questions?

 The thing is, Peter: you never stopped me.

I shook my head, the smile on my lips not fading one bit. 

What did make me special? I never thought of myself that way. Not until after you starting making me feel special, but at that second, neither you nor I knew that such a day would come.

"No," I paused, "The fact that I'm still sitting here, talking to you."

You laughed, a little cynically. 

"How does that make you special?"

I'm not sure why I reacted the way I did. I picked up my backpack and the rest of my belongings and ducked out of the ring. 

"It doesn't," I shrugged, "It makes you special." 

With just that and one final look at the small smile tugging at your lips, the one you fought so hard against, I turned around and left. I had everything I needed for the day.

(A/N) 

Thanks for reading! I'm going to be updating VERY soon again! Don't forget to vote :)

Dedicated to @IPicpicpic for being a sweetheart and also for giving me very helpful feedback. Thanks, love!