“I really hate the countryside.,” she groaned as she stared off into the neverending field of tulips glimmering in the evening sun. What could there be to hate? Her father wondered but did not dare to ask, for she was as headstrong as they come and would go on forever about the downsides of a quiet life. The young girl reached out and grabbed a delicate pink tulip tightly, as if she didn’t recognize her own hands. Floris hated the countryside; she believed that there was nothing to do or be. At the age of fourteen, she had not a shred of thought as to where her life was headed. She did, however, know one thing: she hated the countryside. Her father, on the other hand, was completely content with the tranquility of a private life. He was a florist in a peaceful, quiet town on the Dutch coast.

"Floris,” he muttered softly, with a sound of hesitation. “You will be attending a boarding school as of this spring,” he blurted out with a short burst of confidence.

 The girl paused and simply lowered her head in a state of silence for quite a while. “Why?” she muttered quietly, finally breaking the silence and causing her highly-strung father to become yet more uptight. It would have been much easier if she had simply yelled for a while and then taken off, which he could handle, but the quiet gesture of a heartbroken voice was not in the books for such an unserious man. He had not always been this way, however, his daughter could recall a time when he did not find it necessary to be so ‘fake’ as she saw it. His personality contradicted his face, with sullen eyes sunken far into a mind encompassed in despair. Floris pitied her father, a man taken away by the loss of his deceased wife. Despite this, she still promised herself that she would never end up like him.

Floris began to run home, refusing to look at the long flower fields being kissed by the fruitful spring—spring, her mother's favorite season. Except for Floris, spring was the worst season of all, a selfish entity. Spring chose each year to remind her of her mother’s death. It was the very evil embodiment that had taken her dear mother away. Around 5 years ago, her mother died from a common cold brought on by the changing season. Sometimes she could barely remember her mother's smile or voice. This was very different in spring; however, her mother felt almost alive in spring. She was everywhere, yet nowhere at all. She was in every blooming tulip rising from the ground, and her soul whispered in every gust of wind. Yet, every time Floris tried to reach out for her mother, instead she was met with the silence of a torturous spring.

Floris eventually made her way home and plopped on her bed. Her jaw clenched, and she began to weigh her options in extreme contemplation. Part of her was completely set on disobeying her father and refusing to attend this boarding school. In the end, though, her curious side got the best of her, and she decided she may want to know a little more about this school.

Three weeks later, Floris awoke suddenly to the sound of her father bustling around her room in an attempt to get her up and ready for school. She let out a few great groans and stretched her legs a little before finally making her way out of bed. A long, itchy skirt perfectly paired with a white collared top lay in front of her. Her eyebrows raised, and her nose scrunched naturally at such a horrific uniform. Still, she decided to put it on and made her way downstairs. She kissed her father goodbye and made her way to the school.

 The school was small, maybe only seventeen or so children. They were all older, around Floris’s age. Still, Floris determined to hate this school, made her way to a seat in the back and made no attempts to speak to anyone. She put her head down and began drawing on her papers, not noticing a boy sitting down right beside her.

Suddenly, Floris noticed a little note flicked right onto her paper. She turned briskly, getting ready to holler at whoever had interrupted her. Meeting eyes with a boy smiling a couple of inches from her face, her face flushed a bright red and she returned her eyes to the paper in front of her. 

"Aren't you going to open it?” The boy urged.

 “I suppose” she mumbled in response.

She reluctantly grabbed the note and slowly unwrapped the message that lay inside. It simply read, “Hi, I am Pieter.” The handwriting was sloppy, and Floris could tell he did not put much thought into it. She grabbed her pen and replied in the same casual tone, “Hello, I am Floris Aarle.” She thought it would be good to put her last name, perhaps to create some distance between her and this strange boy. She placed the note in front of him, but Pieter, having already read what she wrote, initiated a conversation.

"So, are you new? What do you think?” Pieter implored.

"Yes, it is alright,” she replied, not making any effort to look at him or give a proper response. “Although I do not quite understand the context in which you ask for my response, Shall I rejoice as the so-present ‘brilliance’ of this establishment?” she snapped at him.

Yet again, he simply ignored her response and asked, “What will you be doing later?” And without a pause long enough for her to respond, he urged another question. “Would you like to join me? I know a stupendous place that I thought you might like to indulge yourself in." He was mocking her clever tone.

Floris scoffed at his impertinent attitude. Why was this boy set on being so discourteous? Her irritation on the subject resulted in her forgetting to reply, and she simply continued on with the shuffling of her papers.

 “I would love if you could join me” Pieter pronounced.

    Startled by his sudden response, Floris jolted upwards and turned swiftly to look at him.

“That is of course, unless you are afraid of an adventure?” Pieter grinned. 

"Of course not!” Floris replied, “I am up for anything.”

“It is set then! We will meet in front of that water fountain by the big library! Do you know that one?”

"I do.”

"Okay perfect! Then we will." He was cut off by an older man making his way to the front of the classroom. Both of them let out a slight chuckle, knowing that they would make fun of the likes of this man later, but for now, they simply drained on listening to the man go on about the vital sciences of the English language.

A couple of hours later, after a very long day of school, Floris had finally made her way home. Even though he was such an annoyance, Floris couldn’t help but wonder what she would wear to her hangout with this boy, and she couldn’t seem to find the root of the butterflies dancing around in her stomach either. So, she spent her time waiting, simply thinking of this boy—what he wore, what he said, even the way he slightly raised his left eyebrow while talking, or the way he laid back in his chair so casually.

Eventually, it came time to finally go meet Pieter. He said they would meet around six in the afternoon. Floris deciding to be fashionably late, took her time combing her long icy brown hair, and placing her favorite blue ribbon accordingly. After she had triple-checked everything was perfect, she finally made her way to town. 

She smiled slightly when she saw him sitting on the edge of the fountain, waiting.

“Hey! You are late.” Pieter said.

"Yes, I suppose,” Floris replied, smiling to herself.

“Well we should go, I can't have you missing it,” Pieter said whilst leading Floris towards the long fields. 

 “Alright then,” she replied. 

The sun setting on the horizon painted a beautiful picture of orange and pink. Floris watched in amazement as the fiery colors met in a celebration to prelude dawn.

"Hurry up!” Pieter shouted, “We have to make it there before nightfall.”

With that, Floris began to hustle through the never-ending green fields. Tall, smooth leaves grazed her body as she made her way through.

"Just up the hill, and then we will be there,” Pieter said excitedly.

They made their way up the steep hill. A large tree stood proudly at the top, watching over all the land beneath. It looked quite important, as if its destiny was to be placed right in that spot.

"It's beautiful.” Floris gawked in amazement at the tree standing in front of her.

"You haven’t seen anything yet,” Pieter bragged. “We have to climb the tree first.”

 “Climb it?” Floris exclaimed.

"I thought you said you were up for anything? The view from above is much better than this, and I promise I won’t let you fall.” Pieter implored.

“I suppose,” Floris muttered. “But you first,” Pieter smirked and shook his head. His feet glided up and over, climbing the vigorous branches. He eventually made it up to a long and sturdy branch that had a perfect view of the receding sun. He waved his hand up in the air as a gesture for Floris to come join him. She made her way, carefully up to where he sat. She had no words. They simply sat and watched the rest of the sunset from that tree, talking about everything and anything. It was the most perfect view of the scene below. 

“We should head back now,” Pieter finally said. 

Floris reluctantly agreed not wanting to leave that beautiful place behind.

"We will come back, I promise,” Pieter assured her. They made their way back to their homes, smiling to themselves, not knowing that it’d be the last time they ever stood there.

Floris woke up just as happy. She decided to make her way to Peiter’s house, but she was not pleased with what she found. Pieter stood next to piles of suitcases filled with all of his belongings. Her eyes flushed with tears, and as she attempted to ask why, her voice simply broke. She knew why, in the Netherlands, all young boys were bound to be drafted to war inevitably, but why did it have to be this boy, and why now? She had only just met him, and yet she already felt tied to his soul. It seemed like some sick joke, that somewhere something was laughing at her, just like the way Spring mocked her grief. Floris already knew what it was like to lose someone without the chance to ever say goodbye, yet when she was met with this farewell, she simply couldn’t do it. She turned and ran away, the same way she had been running from the loss of her mother. Pieter didn’t seem ready to say goodbye either; he turned away, tears falling down his cheeks, and began to gather the rest of his bags. They both had said farewell, and they both felt so very empty. 

Floris ran and ran and ran, having yet to learn where she was headed. Eventually, she made her way to a tree on a hill and sat down. She couldn’t stop the tears from flowing. She had no idea what to do; she knew she would regret not saying goodbye, but she simply had no energy to do such a thing.

After a couple of hours of lying on the hill, Floris had finally decided what to do. This was not goodbye; she would see Pieter again when he returned home. Floris decided she would write to him every day and pray for him to reply.

It had already been a week since Pieter had left. Floris had written him every day, but she received no reply. Yet Floris wrote to him every day, with every changing season:

Dear Pieter,

              You have yet to reply to any of my letters, but it is alright, I assume you are very busy. The season is changing to spring, and I resent it less

          now, which I assume is a good thing. I have begun to write stories. A stupid idea, I  know, but I fear there is not much else for me. The leading characters 

          in my stories always find a way to resemble you, or mother. Yes, I thought it was strange at first, but the more I think about it I don’t think that it is strange 

          at all. The thought of the two of you is the only thing that has been keeping me alive, which terrifies me to admit to another person. Although it is you, I

          feel much less scared. I have forgotten to tell you, father has grown quite ill, I fear that he will not make it to summer. Oh, how I wish you were here. But, it 

          will be alright. I miss you as always and am praying for your return.

                                                                                                                                                                                   Love, Floris 

Floris continued to write to Pieter for several months, but after the death of her father and no sign of any reply, she eventually gave up. Almost five years had passed, and Floris was traveling to Paris to attend the funeral of her aunt, her very last relative.

Floris strolled through the hectic train station. Clouds of engine steam hit her nose strong as she smelled the metallic air. She watched the people bustle around her, carrying on with their mundane lives. All of them held captive under the cold winter air. The loud strain of the train’s engine clouded her thoughts as she pushed through the oblivious flock. She watched the people still, as her eyes jumped around the crowd watching mothers scold their children, and young men rushing to make the evening train. They stopped dead, however, when met with a pair of familiar glossy blue eyes. Suddenly the people in the crowd faded into shadows, and the sound of the train's engine fell far into the background. The winter air got heavier yet, as Floris struggled to stay calm. Overwhelmed with emotions, Floris froze in front of the face she seemed to know so well. It was her friend Pieter, the one who had not written back to her in five years.

Floris had heard stories of what war could do to a man. She specifically remembered the cries of mothers from her village back home, mothers who could barely recognize their sons. Nothing could compare to meeting face-to-face with those blank, cold eyes. They appeared as though they were not looking anywhere in their presence, but hundreds of miles away. 

“Hi, how are you?” Floris reluctantly inquired. 

The cold man simply stared at her for a couple of seconds. “Who are you?” he mumbled.

Floris did not know what to say. I suppose it could have been expected; she had only known this man for one day, and she knew the same about him. Yet she couldn’t help but flush a deep red. She had thought of him every single day for five years, and he did not even know who she was. Floris felt heartbroken and ashamed all the same. She had stood there for quite a while and looked up to find that Pieter had left. Floris had no energy for anything; she bought a ticket to return home and got on the earliest train.

She was pained with her torturous thoughts for the rest of the train ride home. There was nothing left for her. She had no family, and her very last hope was a lie. 

    When she returned to her lonesome, silent home, a wave of anger flashed over her. She wondered why all of this had to happen to her. She tore down the picture frames on the wall and began to swipe all of the items off of her table. She suddenly found a box; it was full of hundreds of stories, stories that she had been writing ever since she was a little girl. She picked out stories of princesses and soldiers, stories of poets and normal girls. Floris stared at them for quite a while, remembering the burning passion she once had. She thought of the little girl who had dreamt of traveling the whole world, and living a life as a bird and as the sky. She thought of a girl who had found a way to live all of these lives, through her writing. 

Floris grabbed some paper and simply started writing. She continued writing until her hand felt like it was going to fall off, and then she wrote some more. She wrote and wrote, finishing book after book. She even traveled to Paris to have some of the books published. Her books flourished; they became so popular that every girl in the country asked their father to buy them one. Floris spent the rest of her life alone, although she spent the rest of her life continuing to be a writer, so who is to say that she was truly alone? She eventually died in her sleep in her childhood home. There was no funeral service, and there were no flowers laid on her grave. Her impact will be remembered, however, by the lives she affected through her writing, the same way she had been impacted herself. 

“I really hate the countryside.,” she groaned as she stared off into the neverending field of tulips glimmering in the evening sun. What could there be to hate? Her father wondered but did not dare to ask, for she was as headstrong as they come and would go on forever about the downsides of a quiet life. The young girl reached out and grabbed a delicate pink tulip tightly, as if she didn’t recognize her own hands. Floris hated the countryside; she believed that there was nothing to do or be. At the age of fourteen, she had not a shred of thought as to where her life was headed. She did, however, know one thing: she hated the countryside. Her father, on the other hand, was completely content with the tranquility of a private life. He was a florist in a peaceful, quiet town on the Dutch coast.

"Floris,” he muttered softly, with a sound of hesitation. “You will be attending a boarding school as of this spring,” he blurted out with a short burst of confidence.

 The girl paused and simply lowered her head in a state of silence for quite a while. “Why?” she muttered quietly, finally breaking the silence and causing her highly-strung father to become yet more uptight. It would have been much easier if she had simply yelled for a while and then taken off, which he could handle, but the quiet gesture of a heartbroken voice was not in the books for such an unserious man. He had not always been this way, however, his daughter could recall a time when he did not find it necessary to be so ‘fake’ as she saw it. His personality contradicted his face, with sullen eyes sunken far into a mind encompassed in despair. Floris pitied her father, a man taken away by the loss of his deceased wife. Despite this, she still promised herself that she would never end up like him.

Floris began to run home, refusing to look at the long flower fields being kissed by the fruitful spring—spring, her mother's favorite season. Except for Floris, spring was the worst season of all, a selfish entity. Spring chose each year to remind her of her mother’s death. It was the very evil embodiment that had taken her dear mother away. Around 5 years ago, her mother died from a common cold brought on by the changing season. Sometimes she could barely remember her mother's smile or voice. This was very different in spring; however, her mother felt almost alive in spring. She was everywhere, yet nowhere at all. She was in every blooming tulip rising from the ground, and her soul whispered in every gust of wind. Yet, every time Floris tried to reach out for her mother, instead she was met with the silence of a torturous spring.

Floris eventually made her way home and plopped on her bed. Her jaw clenched, and she began to weigh her options in extreme contemplation. Part of her was completely set on disobeying her father and refusing to attend this boarding school. In the end, though, her curious side got the best of her, and she decided she may want to know a little more about this school.

Three weeks later, Floris awoke suddenly to the sound of her father bustling around her room in an attempt to get her up and ready for school. She let out a few great groans and stretched her legs a little before finally making her way out of bed. A long, itchy skirt perfectly paired with a white collared top lay in front of her. Her eyebrows raised, and her nose scrunched naturally at such a horrific uniform. Still, she decided to put it on and made her way downstairs. She kissed her father goodbye and made her way to the school.

 The school was small, maybe only seventeen or so children. They were all older, around Floris’s age. Still, Floris determined to hate this school, made her way to a seat in the back and made no attempts to speak to anyone. She put her head down and began drawing on her papers, not noticing a boy sitting down right beside her.

Suddenly, Floris noticed a little note flicked right onto her paper. She turned briskly, getting ready to holler at whoever had interrupted her. Meeting eyes with a boy smiling a couple of inches from her face, her face flushed a bright red and she returned her eyes to the paper in front of her. 

"Aren't you going to open it?” The boy urged.

 “I suppose” she mumbled in response.

She reluctantly grabbed the note and slowly unwrapped the message that lay inside. It simply read, “Hi, I am Pieter.” The handwriting was sloppy, and Floris could tell he did not put much thought into it. She grabbed her pen and replied in the same casual tone, “Hello, I am Floris Aarle.” She thought it would be good to put her last name, perhaps to create some distance between her and this strange boy. She placed the note in front of him, but Pieter, having already read what she wrote, initiated a conversation.

"So, are you new? What do you think?” Pieter implored.

"Yes, it is alright,” she replied, not making any effort to look at him or give a proper response. “Although I do not quite understand the context in which you ask for my response, Shall I rejoice as the so-present ‘brilliance’ of this establishment?” she snapped at him.

Yet again, he simply ignored her response and asked, “What will you be doing later?” And without a pause long enough for her to respond, he urged another question. “Would you like to join me? I know a stupendous place that I thought you might like to indulge yourself in." He was mocking her clever tone.

Floris scoffed at his impertinent attitude. Why was this boy set on being so discourteous? Her irritation on the subject resulted in her forgetting to reply, and she simply continued on with the shuffling of her papers.

 “I would love if you could join me” Pieter pronounced.

    Startled by his sudden response, Floris jolted upwards and turned swiftly to look at him.

“That is of course, unless you are afraid of an adventure?” Pieter grinned. 

"Of course not!” Floris replied, “I am up for anything.”

“It is set then! We will meet in front of that water fountain by the big library! Do you know that one?”

"I do.”

"Okay perfect! Then we will." He was cut off by an older man making his way to the front of the classroom. Both of them let out a slight chuckle, knowing that they would make fun of the likes of this man later, but for now, they simply drained on listening to the man go on about the vital sciences of the English language.

A couple of hours later, after a very long day of school, Floris had finally made her way home. Even though he was such an annoyance, Floris couldn’t help but wonder what she would wear to her hangout with this boy, and she couldn’t seem to find the root of the butterflies dancing around in her stomach either. So, she spent her time waiting, simply thinking of this boy—what he wore, what he said, even the way he slightly raised his left eyebrow while talking, or the way he laid back in his chair so casually.

Eventually, it came time to finally go meet Pieter. He said they would meet around six in the afternoon. Floris deciding to be fashionably late, took her time combing her long icy brown hair, and placing her favorite blue ribbon accordingly. After she had triple-checked everything was perfect, she finally made her way to town. 

She smiled slightly when she saw him sitting on the edge of the fountain, waiting.

“Hey! You are late.” Pieter said.

"Yes, I suppose,” Floris replied, smiling to herself.

“Well we should go, I can't have you missing it,” Pieter said whilst leading Floris towards the long fields. 

 “Alright then,” she replied. 

The sun setting on the horizon painted a beautiful picture of orange and pink. Floris watched in amazement as the fiery colors met in a celebration to prelude dawn.

"Hurry up!” Pieter shouted, “We have to make it there before nightfall.”

With that, Floris began to hustle through the never-ending green fields. Tall, smooth leaves grazed her body as she made her way through.

"Just up the hill, and then we will be there,” Pieter said excitedly.

They made their way up the steep hill. A large tree stood proudly at the top, watching over all the land beneath. It looked quite important, as if its destiny was to be placed right in that spot.

"It's beautiful.” Floris gawked in amazement at the tree standing in front of her.

"You haven’t seen anything yet,” Pieter bragged. “We have to climb the tree first.”

 “Climb it?” Floris exclaimed.

"I thought you said you were up for anything? The view from above is much better than this, and I promise I won’t let you fall.” Pieter implored.

“I suppose,” Floris muttered. “But you first,” Pieter smirked and shook his head. His feet glided up and over, climbing the vigorous branches. He eventually made it up to a long and sturdy branch that had a perfect view of the receding sun. He waved his hand up in the air as a gesture for Floris to come join him. She made her way, carefully up to where he sat. She had no words. They simply sat and watched the rest of the sunset from that tree, talking about everything and anything. It was the most perfect view of the scene below. 

“We should head back now,” Pieter finally said. 

Floris reluctantly agreed not wanting to leave that beautiful place behind.

"We will come back, I promise,” Pieter assured her. They made their way back to their homes, smiling to themselves, not knowing that it’d be the last time they ever stood there.

Floris woke up just as happy. She decided to make her way to Peiter’s house, but she was not pleased with what she found. Pieter stood next to piles of suitcases filled with all of his belongings. Her eyes flushed with tears, and as she attempted to ask why, her voice simply broke. She knew why, in the Netherlands, all young boys were bound to be drafted to war inevitably, but why did it have to be this boy, and why now? She had only just met him, and yet she already felt tied to his soul. It seemed like some sick joke, that somewhere something was laughing at her, just like the way Spring mocked her grief. Floris already knew what it was like to lose someone without the chance to ever say goodbye, yet when she was met with this farewell, she simply couldn’t do it. She turned and ran away, the same way she had been running from the loss of her mother. Pieter didn’t seem ready to say goodbye either; he turned away, tears falling down his cheeks, and began to gather the rest of his bags. They both had said farewell, and they both felt so very empty. 

Floris ran and ran and ran, having yet to learn where she was headed. Eventually, she made her way to a tree on a hill and sat down. She couldn’t stop the tears from flowing. She had no idea what to do; she knew she would regret not saying goodbye, but she simply had no energy to do such a thing.

After a couple of hours of lying on the hill, Floris had finally decided what to do. This was not goodbye; she would see Pieter again when he returned home. Floris decided she would write to him every day and pray for him to reply.

It had already been a week since Pieter had left. Floris had written him every day, but she received no reply. Yet Floris wrote to him every day, with every changing season:

Dear Pieter,

              You have yet to reply to any of my letters, but it is alright, I assume you are very busy. The season is changing to spring, and I resent it less

          now, which I assume is a good thing. I have begun to write stories. A stupid idea, I  know, but I fear there is not much else for me. The leading characters 

          in my stories always find a way to resemble you, or mother. Yes, I thought it was strange at first, but the more I think about it I don’t think that it is strange 

          at all. The thought of the two of you is the only thing that has been keeping me alive, which terrifies me to admit to another person. Although it is you, I

          feel much less scared. I have forgotten to tell you, father has grown quite ill, I fear that he will not make it to summer. Oh, how I wish you were here. But, it 

          will be alright. I miss you as always and am praying for your return.

                                                                                                                                                                                   Love, Floris 

Floris continued to write to Pieter for several months, but after the death of her father and no sign of any reply, she eventually gave up. Almost five years had passed, and Floris was traveling to Paris to attend the funeral of her aunt, her very last relative.

Floris strolled through the hectic train station. Clouds of engine steam hit her nose strong as she smelled the metallic air. She watched the people bustle around her, carrying on with their mundane lives. All of them held captive under the cold winter air. The loud strain of the train’s engine clouded her thoughts as she pushed through the oblivious flock. She watched the people still, as her eyes jumped around the crowd watching mothers scold their children, and young men rushing to make the evening train. They stopped dead, however, when met with a pair of familiar glossy blue eyes. Suddenly the people in the crowd faded into shadows, and the sound of the train's engine fell far into the background. The winter air got heavier yet, as Floris struggled to stay calm. Overwhelmed with emotions, Floris froze in front of the face she seemed to know so well. It was her friend Pieter, the one who had not written back to her in five years.

Floris had heard stories of what war could do to a man. She specifically remembered the cries of mothers from her village back home, mothers who could barely recognize their sons. Nothing could compare to meeting face-to-face with those blank, cold eyes. They appeared as though they were not looking anywhere in their presence, but hundreds of miles away. 

“Hi, how are you?” Floris reluctantly inquired. 

The cold man simply stared at her for a couple of seconds. “Who are you?” he mumbled.

Floris did not know what to say. I suppose it could have been expected; she had only known this man for one day, and she knew the same about him. Yet she couldn’t help but flush a deep red. She had thought of him every single day for five years, and he did not even know who she was. Floris felt heartbroken and ashamed all the same. She had stood there for quite a while and looked up to find that Pieter had left. Floris had no energy for anything; she bought a ticket to return home and got on the earliest train.

She was pained with her torturous thoughts for the rest of the train ride home. There was nothing left for her. She had no family, and her very last hope was a lie. 

    When she returned to her lonesome, silent home, a wave of anger flashed over her. She wondered why all of this had to happen to her. She tore down the picture frames on the wall and began to swipe all of the items off of her table. She suddenly found a box; it was full of hundreds of stories, stories that she had been writing ever since she was a little girl. She picked out stories of princesses and soldiers, stories of poets and normal girls. Floris stared at them for quite a while, remembering the burning passion she once had. She thought of the little girl who had dreamt of traveling the whole world, and living a life as a bird and as the sky. She thought of a girl who had found a way to live all of these lives, through her writing. 

Floris grabbed some paper and simply started writing. She continued writing until her hand felt like it was going to fall off, and then she wrote some more. She wrote and wrote, finishing book after book. She even traveled to Paris to have some of the books published. Her books flourished; they became so popular that every girl in the country asked their father to buy them one. Floris spent the rest of her life alone, although she spent the rest of her life continuing to be a writer, so who is to say that she was truly alone? She eventually died in her sleep in her childhood home. There was no funeral service, and there were no flowers laid on her grave. Her impact will be remembered, however, by the lives she affected through her writing, the same way she had been impacted herself. 

“I really hate the countryside.,” she groaned as she stared off into the neverending field of tulips glimmering in the evening sun. What could there be to hate? Her father wondered but did not dare to ask, for she was as headstrong as they come and would go on forever about the downsides of a quiet life. The young girl reached out and grabbed a delicate pink tulip tightly, as if she didn’t recognize her own hands. Floris hated the countryside; she believed that there was nothing to do or be. At the age of fourteen, she had not a shred of thought as to where her life was headed. She did, however, know one thing: she hated the countryside. Her father, on the other hand, was completely content with the tranquility of a private life. He was a florist in a peaceful, quiet town on the Dutch coast.

"Floris,” he muttered softly, with a sound of hesitation. “You will be attending a boarding school as of this spring,” he blurted out with a short burst of confidence.

 The girl paused and simply lowered her head in a state of silence for quite a while. “Why?” she muttered quietly, finally breaking the silence and causing her highly-strung father to become yet more uptight. It would have been much easier if she had simply yelled for a while and then taken off, which he could handle, but the quiet gesture of a heartbroken voice was not in the books for such an unserious man. He had not always been this way, however, his daughter could recall a time when he did not find it necessary to be so ‘fake’ as she saw it. His personality contradicted his face, with sullen eyes sunken far into a mind encompassed in despair. Floris pitied her father, a man taken away by the loss of his deceased wife. Despite this, she still promised herself that she would never end up like him.

Floris began to run home, refusing to look at the long flower fields being kissed by the fruitful spring—spring, her mother's favorite season. Except for Floris, spring was the worst season of all, a selfish entity. Spring chose each year to remind her of her mother’s death. It was the very evil embodiment that had taken her dear mother away. Around 5 years ago, her mother died from a common cold brought on by the changing season. Sometimes she could barely remember her mother's smile or voice. This was very different in spring; however, her mother felt almost alive in spring. She was everywhere, yet nowhere at all. She was in every blooming tulip rising from the ground, and her soul whispered in every gust of wind. Yet, every time Floris tried to reach out for her mother, instead she was met with the silence of a torturous spring.

Floris eventually made her way home and plopped on her bed. Her jaw clenched, and she began to weigh her options in extreme contemplation. Part of her was completely set on disobeying her father and refusing to attend this boarding school. In the end, though, her curious side got the best of her, and she decided she may want to know a little more about this school.

Three weeks later, Floris awoke suddenly to the sound of her father bustling around her room in an attempt to get her up and ready for school. She let out a few great groans and stretched her legs a little before finally making her way out of bed. A long, itchy skirt perfectly paired with a white collared top lay in front of her. Her eyebrows raised, and her nose scrunched naturally at such a horrific uniform. Still, she decided to put it on and made her way downstairs. She kissed her father goodbye and made her way to the school.

 The school was small, maybe only seventeen or so children. They were all older, around Floris’s age. Still, Floris determined to hate this school, made her way to a seat in the back and made no attempts to speak to anyone. She put her head down and began drawing on her papers, not noticing a boy sitting down right beside her.

Suddenly, Floris noticed a little note flicked right onto her paper. She turned briskly, getting ready to holler at whoever had interrupted her. Meeting eyes with a boy smiling a couple of inches from her face, her face flushed a bright red and she returned her eyes to the paper in front of her. 

"Aren't you going to open it?” The boy urged.

 “I suppose” she mumbled in response.

She reluctantly grabbed the note and slowly unwrapped the message that lay inside. It simply read, “Hi, I am Pieter.” The handwriting was sloppy, and Floris could tell he did not put much thought into it. She grabbed her pen and replied in the same casual tone, “Hello, I am Floris Aarle.” She thought it would be good to put her last name, perhaps to create some distance between her and this strange boy. She placed the note in front of him, but Pieter, having already read what she wrote, initiated a conversation.

"So, are you new? What do you think?” Pieter implored.

"Yes, it is alright,” she replied, not making any effort to look at him or give a proper response. “Although I do not quite understand the context in which you ask for my response, Shall I rejoice as the so-present ‘brilliance’ of this establishment?” she snapped at him.

Yet again, he simply ignored her response and asked, “What will you be doing later?” And without a pause long enough for her to respond, he urged another question. “Would you like to join me? I know a stupendous place that I thought you might like to indulge yourself in." He was mocking her clever tone.

Floris scoffed at his impertinent attitude. Why was this boy set on being so discourteous? Her irritation on the subject resulted in her forgetting to reply, and she simply continued on with the shuffling of her papers.

 “I would love if you could join me” Pieter pronounced.

    Startled by his sudden response, Floris jolted upwards and turned swiftly to look at him.

“That is of course, unless you are afraid of an adventure?” Pieter grinned. 

"Of course not!” Floris replied, “I am up for anything.”

“It is set then! We will meet in front of that water fountain by the big library! Do you know that one?”

"I do.”

"Okay perfect! Then we will." He was cut off by an older man making his way to the front of the classroom. Both of them let out a slight chuckle, knowing that they would make fun of the likes of this man later, but for now, they simply drained on listening to the man go on about the vital sciences of the English language.

A couple of hours later, after a very long day of school, Floris had finally made her way home. Even though he was such an annoyance, Floris couldn’t help but wonder what she would wear to her hangout with this boy, and she couldn’t seem to find the root of the butterflies dancing around in her stomach either. So, she spent her time waiting, simply thinking of this boy—what he wore, what he said, even the way he slightly raised his left eyebrow while talking, or the way he laid back in his chair so casually.

Eventually, it came time to finally go meet Pieter. He said they would meet around six in the afternoon. Floris deciding to be fashionably late, took her time combing her long icy brown hair, and placing her favorite blue ribbon accordingly. After she had triple-checked everything was perfect, she finally made her way to town. 

She smiled slightly when she saw him sitting on the edge of the fountain, waiting.

“Hey! You are late.” Pieter said.

"Yes, I suppose,” Floris replied, smiling to herself.

“Well we should go, I can't have you missing it,” Pieter said whilst leading Floris towards the long fields. 

 “Alright then,” she replied. 

The sun setting on the horizon painted a beautiful picture of orange and pink. Floris watched in amazement as the fiery colors met in a celebration to prelude dawn.

"Hurry up!” Pieter shouted, “We have to make it there before nightfall.”

With that, Floris began to hustle through the never-ending green fields. Tall, smooth leaves grazed her body as she made her way through.

"Just up the hill, and then we will be there,” Pieter said excitedly.

They made their way up the steep hill. A large tree stood proudly at the top, watching over all the land beneath. It looked quite important, as if its destiny was to be placed right in that spot.

"It's beautiful.” Floris gawked in amazement at the tree standing in front of her.

"You haven’t seen anything yet,” Pieter bragged. “We have to climb the tree first.”

 “Climb it?” Floris exclaimed.

"I thought you said you were up for anything? The view from above is much better than this, and I promise I won’t let you fall.” Pieter implored.

“I suppose,” Floris muttered. “But you first,” Pieter smirked and shook his head. His feet glided up and over, climbing the vigorous branches. He eventually made it up to a long and sturdy branch that had a perfect view of the receding sun. He waved his hand up in the air as a gesture for Floris to come join him. She made her way, carefully up to where he sat. She had no words. They simply sat and watched the rest of the sunset from that tree, talking about everything and anything. It was the most perfect view of the scene below. 

“We should head back now,” Pieter finally said. 

Floris reluctantly agreed not wanting to leave that beautiful place behind.

"We will come back, I promise,” Pieter assured her. They made their way back to their homes, smiling to themselves, not knowing that it’d be the last time they ever stood there.

Floris woke up just as happy. She decided to make her way to Peiter’s house, but she was not pleased with what she found. Pieter stood next to piles of suitcases filled with all of his belongings. Her eyes flushed with tears, and as she attempted to ask why, her voice simply broke. She knew why, in the Netherlands, all young boys were bound to be drafted to war inevitably, but why did it have to be this boy, and why now? She had only just met him, and yet she already felt tied to his soul. It seemed like some sick joke, that somewhere something was laughing at her, just like the way Spring mocked her grief. Floris already knew what it was like to lose someone without the chance to ever say goodbye, yet when she was met with this farewell, she simply couldn’t do it. She turned and ran away, the same way she had been running from the loss of her mother. Pieter didn’t seem ready to say goodbye either; he turned away, tears falling down his cheeks, and began to gather the rest of his bags. They both had said farewell, and they both felt so very empty. 

Floris ran and ran and ran, having yet to learn where she was headed. Eventually, she made her way to a tree on a hill and sat down. She couldn’t stop the tears from flowing. She had no idea what to do; she knew she would regret not saying goodbye, but she simply had no energy to do such a thing.

After a couple of hours of lying on the hill, Floris had finally decided what to do. This was not goodbye; she would see Pieter again when he returned home. Floris decided she would write to him every day and pray for him to reply.

It had already been a week since Pieter had left. Floris had written him every day, but she received no reply. Yet Floris wrote to him every day, with every changing season:

Dear Pieter,

              You have yet to reply to any of my letters, but it is alright, I assume you are very busy. The season is changing to spring, and I resent it less

          now, which I assume is a good thing. I have begun to write stories. A stupid idea, I  know, but I fear there is not much else for me. The leading characters 

          in my stories always find a way to resemble you, or mother. Yes, I thought it was strange at first, but the more I think about it I don’t think that it is strange 

          at all. The thought of the two of you is the only thing that has been keeping me alive, which terrifies me to admit to another person. Although it is you, I

          feel much less scared. I have forgotten to tell you, father has grown quite ill, I fear that he will not make it to summer. Oh, how I wish you were here. But, it 

          will be alright. I miss you as always and am praying for your return.

                                                                                                                                                                                   Love, Floris 

Floris continued to write to Pieter for several months, but after the death of her father and no sign of any reply, she eventually gave up. Almost five years had passed, and Floris was traveling to Paris to attend the funeral of her aunt, her very last relative.

Floris strolled through the hectic train station. Clouds of engine steam hit her nose strong as she smelled the metallic air. She watched the people bustle around her, carrying on with their mundane lives. All of them held captive under the cold winter air. The loud strain of the train’s engine clouded her thoughts as she pushed through the oblivious flock. She watched the people still, as her eyes jumped around the crowd watching mothers scold their children, and young men rushing to make the evening train. They stopped dead, however, when met with a pair of familiar glossy blue eyes. Suddenly the people in the crowd faded into shadows, and the sound of the train's engine fell far into the background. The winter air got heavier yet, as Floris struggled to stay calm. Overwhelmed with emotions, Floris froze in front of the face she seemed to know so well. It was her friend Pieter, the one who had not written back to her in five years.

Floris had heard stories of what war could do to a man. She specifically remembered the cries of mothers from her village back home, mothers who could barely recognize their sons. Nothing could compare to meeting face-to-face with those blank, cold eyes. They appeared as though they were not looking anywhere in their presence, but hundreds of miles away. 

“Hi, how are you?” Floris reluctantly inquired. 

The cold man simply stared at her for a couple of seconds. “Who are you?” he mumbled.

Floris did not know what to say. I suppose it could have been expected; she had only known this man for one day, and she knew the same about him. Yet she couldn’t help but flush a deep red. She had thought of him every single day for five years, and he did not even know who she was. Floris felt heartbroken and ashamed all the same. She had stood there for quite a while and looked up to find that Pieter had left. Floris had no energy for anything; she bought a ticket to return home and got on the earliest train.

She was pained with her torturous thoughts for the rest of the train ride home. There was nothing left for her. She had no family, and her very last hope was a lie. 

    When she returned to her lonesome, silent home, a wave of anger flashed over her. She wondered why all of this had to happen to her. She tore down the picture frames on the wall and began to swipe all of the items off of her table. She suddenly found a box; it was full of hundreds of stories, stories that she had been writing ever since she was a little girl. She picked out stories of princesses and soldiers, stories of poets and normal girls. Floris stared at them for quite a while, remembering the burning passion she once had. She thought of the little girl who had dreamt of traveling the whole world, and living a life as a bird and as the sky. She thought of a girl who had found a way to live all of these lives, through her writing. 

Floris grabbed some paper and simply started writing. She continued writing until her hand felt like it was going to fall off, and then she wrote some more. She wrote and wrote, finishing book after book. She even traveled to Paris to have some of the books published. Her books flourished; they became so popular that every girl in the country asked their father to buy them one. Floris spent the rest of her life alone, although she spent the rest of her life continuing to be a writer, so who is to say that she was truly alone? She eventually died in her sleep in her childhood home. There was no funeral service, and there were no flowers laid on her grave. Her impact will be remembered, however, by the lives she affected through her writing, the same way she had been impacted herself.