"Water The Plants"

I told him, just water the plants while I’m gone. That’s it. Not save the world, not fix his life just keep something green alive. He said, “Yeah, of course.” And I wanted to believe him. Five months clean felt like hope. Soft, careful, fragile hope. So I packed my bag, closed the door, and tried not to carry fear with me. When I came back, the house smelled like old nights. Like the kind we don’t talk about. Bottles everywhere. Cigarette burns on the couch. Strangers in my kitchen like they belonged. And there he was. Red-eyed, thin smile, voice shaky like his hands. He looked at me and said, “Don’t worry, I watered the plants.” I didn’t say anything. Just stood there, wondering how love can feel this heavy and still stay. Because it wasn’t about the plants. It was about knowing he could care for something while I wasn’t there. Even a leaf, even a stem. It was about trust. About hope. About the tiny kind of healing that starts with something small. But the plants were dead. And he didn’t notice. Still, I love him. Even like this.