He never bought her the red tulips that she always brought up around dinner time, nor did he ever take her to the art gallery on South High Street that they passed nearly every Wednesday on their way to her mother’s house. He never introduced her as anything more than, “Taylor,” even though they had lived together for the past five months, but he looked at her with wondering green eyes that read her as his favorite novel; he always noticed when she trimmed her hair, or got blonde highlights, and his face would glow as she blushed from his compliments.
On long nights when the sky fought and the rain composed soft melodies against their rooftop, he rubbed her back and rambled on about how he traveled to the moon, in his dreams, and made friends with the stars; each detail wrapping their arms around her, encouraging her to visit the moon herself.
He never told anyone he loved them, not even his mother, but it must of been how the first snow fell perfectly onto her hair, intertwining with each strand, as they stood outside their first house, having their first fight, free to the public, that he realized he wouldn't want to be fighting with anyone other than her, so he said it.
“I love you Taylor Moore,” he screamed.
And after all that, she threw her head back in a dark laughter that shook the earth, a crooked smile painted across her face, and had the nerve to ask if it was a joke. So he left, simply because the only thing he had ever loved, did not believe in him.
It didn't click until his black BMW did not appear in their garage the following morning; just  because he didn’t love her in the way she was use to being loved, didn’t mean that he did not love her with everything he had.
--
He never bought her flowers, but then again, he never bought anyone flowers.