Wilted

“Are you ever going to tell someone what that something is?” Rachel asked.

I shrugged, “It’s a difficult thing.”

“I’m sure I’ve head worse.” Rachel stated. I know she didn’t mean it in a hurtful way, but the words stung. There’s always someone who has it worse.

I shrugged again, “Possibly. But I don’t want to talk about it.”

Rachel seemed to understand. She smiled softly. “When you’re ready to, I’m here.”

She signalled to the waitress to get the bill. When I went to pay my share, she shook her head. “Next time I come over, just be nice.”

I smiled back. I guess I could try being nice.

***

When we left the café, I went right back to my apartment whilst Rachel waved and went left to go see another individual like me. Unstable, but probably a lot nicer than me.

I returned to my room and began watering and pruning my plants. Some were looking a little sad still so I tugged a bag potting mix from my cupboard and began repotting, sitting cross-legged on the floor as I did.

Zantedeschia aethipica. Chrysalidocarpus lutescens. Argyroderma testiculare.

I recited the names of the different plants perched throughout my room. I was never a massive plant person before the dark days, but afterwards I was so drawn to them. I had a natural green thumb and the more I grew the better I started to feel.

But there’s always a limiting factor, and my happiness wasn’t exponential. A few weeks ago, I stopped getting the elated feeling from a new plant. I love every plant I have, I call them by their Latin names and treat them as well as you can treat a plant. But over time, I realised no matter how many plants I had they couldn’t bloom inside of me and fill up that darkness.

Plants need light to grow, and I’m too consumed by the dark.