Bloom whispers of first love - tender, trembling, quietly alive. It shimmers with promises, each breath as fragile and delicate as a petal kissed by dawn. Every moment unfurls like a fresh blossom, carrying within it a sweet chaos where the heart first learns to open, to ache, to bloom

In her eyes, I found aureum — flecked with golden whispers, gleaming like hidden treasure. Her face shimmered like a trove of rare jewels, adorned with the brooches she cherished, each one a keepsake of memory and grace. Her curls tumbled like wandering grapevines, wild yet tender, and her beauty lingered on the soul like the first sip of red wine — warm, intoxicating, unforgettable.

Midnight carries the weigh of my broken heart painted in language of still life. The pomegranates torn open mirrors the way my heart was split apart - spilling with ache. Golden vessels gleam like the fragments of memory, I hold too precious yet too heavy. Each grape, untouched, whisper of the appetite i lost when sorrow consumed me. The lone candle stands unlit, like night i spent awake at 3am , drowning in silence, longing and fury tangled together and yet amid the chaos, her face would return to me- soft as the white blossoms in the corners - dissolving every storm inside. In those moments all the rage i harbored melted into nothing and tears, warm and unwillingly, rolled down my checks , this scarf is not just a fabric, it is my sleepless night, my breathless hours, my agony, and the fleeting mercy of her memory - woven together into a portrait of love lost and the fragile beauty of pain.

This scarf carries her memory within its folds — the sparkle of her eyes glimmers through every jewel, the warmth of her smile shimmers in each golden thread. Along its edges, pearls rest like tears I once held dear, delicate and unforgotten. Within its amber glow, I see her face at dusk — soft, fleeting, and untouchable, as though time itself longed to hold her but could not. She is gone, yet these memories remain, luminous and unyielding, woven into silk as precious as the jewels I can never lose. This piece is not an ornament of beauty alone — it is remembrance, love preserved in threads, and the echo of what once was.

To watch sorrow without being consumed by it, to witness my anger without becoming it — that is the essence of peace. I have learned that I am not the storm. I am the sky — vast, calm, eternal — the quiet witness to every passing cloud of grief, rage, or longing. The pain, once sharp and heavy, has softened with time, fading like echoes in a quiet forest. What remains is stillness, a tender serenity that neither clings nor resists. Yes, there are moments when I miss, when memory stirs the heart again. Yet the ache no longer overwhelms; it simply rests within me as a gentle reminder that I once loved deeply. That love, even in its absence, has shaped me, and what remains is not only loss but grace — a soft, enduring peace.

Each of these scarves holds a piece of my journey — a memory, a feeling, woven in silk. They are not just pieces of fabric; they hold something I once loved deeply, and something I lost. So, when you wear them, I hope you feel not just the beauty of the art, but also find your own story within them — your own Bloom, your own Midnight, your own Serenity.

-Prithvi Raj Roy