As I leave his office, I feel both lighter and heavier. Lighter because he's given me permission to change course. Heavier because now I have to figure out what comes next.
The sun is warm on my face as I head toward the bench, toward Ethan, toward whatever story we're still writing together. Maybe that's what my new project needs to be about—not preventing heartbreak or predicting compatibility, but helping people revise their own narratives when life doesn't follow the algorithm.
38
PIPER
The following day Greg sits on my desk, looking distinctly unhappy. Despite my best efforts—water, sunlight, even playing him music like Ethan does—his leaves are starting to droop. Apparently, plants can pine for their owners.
“I know, buddy,” I tell him, adjusting his position for the hundredth time. “I miss him too.”
I miss Ethan. I do.
Even my successful grade in Creative Writing feels hollow without him to share it with.
I’ve drafted seventeen different apology texts. None of them feel right. How do you explain that you were scared? That you’d been hurt before and couldn’t bear to risk it again? That his trust meant so much you were terrified of breaking it?
Greg’s leaves droop further, and that’s what finally snaps me into action. If nothing else, Ethan deserves his plant back healthy.
By 2 PM,I’m standing outside his house with Greg in my arms and my heart in my throat. No index cards, no structured apology. Just me, holding his dying plant and hoping that’s enough to start a conversation.
I knock before I can lose my nerve.
Freddie answers, takes one look at me holding Greg, and his eyes go wide.
“Holy shit. Ethan!Ethan!!”
“Is he—” I start.
“He’s been a disaster,” Freddie says bluntly. “Like, actually concerning levels of moping. He submitted his game to studios though, so that’s good. But yeah. Disaster.”
My chest tightens. He submitted his game. The one I helped make better. The one he fixed because of my critique.
Ethan appears at the top of the stairs and freezes. He looks... tired. Beautiful and familiar and tired, like he hasn’t been sleeping well. When he sees me holding Greg, something flickers across his face.
“Hey,” I say inadequately.
“Hey.” He comes down slowly, eyes on his plant. “Is Greg okay?”
“He misses you.” I hold out the monstera like a peace offering. “His leaves started drooping yesterday. I think he’s depressed.”
“Plants don’t get depressed,” Ethan says automatically, but he’s already reaching for Greg, fingers gentle as he checks the leaves.
“This one does.” I watch him fuss over the plant, the careful way he examines each leaf. “He’s been pining.”
“Just Greg?”
The question hangs between us.
“No,” I admit. “Not just Greg.”
He finally looks at me properly. “Want to come up? Greg probably needs to settle back in his spot.”
I follow him to his room, trying not to notice how natural this feels. How much I’ve missed the controlled chaos of his space, the sketches on the walls, the way afternoon light falls through the window where Greg belongs.
Ethan settles Greg on the windowsill, murmuring something I can’t catch. Already the plant seems perkier, like he knows he’s home.
“So,” Ethan says, not turning around. “You came to return my plant.”
