When Adonis was seriously wounded by a wild boar, Aphrodite, his companion, tried unsuccessfully to rescue him. As she ran to find him, she tore herself on the thorns of a white rosebush. Her blood dyed the flowers red, and thus, the red roses were born.
Some versions claim that these flowers were created by her tears, mixed with Adonis's blood. Anyway, red flowers became a symbol of passion and love, but covered with a veil of tragedy.

While making this photograph, the scene from Fleabag at her mother's funeral was resonating in my head: "What do I do now with all the love I have for her?" I believe that the human capacity to love and receive love is a blessing. It’s a driving force, and a compelling reason to give meaning to our existence. However, when the opportunity for love is taken away from us, vanishes without warning, or we realize that, in reality, we weren't being loved, it can also be a penance.