It has been a saddening day for the rose. The day has finally come, and sadly it didn't get picked by its master. The rose was sure of itself- that the master will definitely handpicked it first, but the reality sets in. The rose felt the deep cut of its own thorn when its being left-out in the middle, all alone.
 The rose felt as if it was the punishment of being too self-absorbed with its position- the rose was so proud of its position, the Sun become its best friend and the Wind was its companion, and now it looks like it will always be that way. The master must've felt the same way too.

The rose thought that its colour was the reddest of  all, the fast-bloomer compared to the others, but the rose forget to see its reflection on the puddle the Rain left;
the rose is only a weed among the sunflowers. 
The colour contradicts so much, that it hurts the master's eyes. 
The texture contradicts so much, that it hurts the master's hands.

And so the rose realized. And it takes so much of a willpower for it not to wilt, as the rose believes,  that it's enough for the rose to be the only to believe.
It is enough. It's more than enough.

And so the rose continued to blossom. It is a promise the rose intend to keep. To no one-but itself.