Eli thinks about the cliff she stepped off at seventeen. About the fall. About how she thought landing would hurt.

That was eight months ago. Now, Eli is curled up on June’s couch while rain streaks the windows. The pothos—now thriving, thank you very much—trails from a shelf above them. June is reading aloud from a book of queer poetry, her voice drowsy and warm. Eli has her head in June’s lap, and June’s free hand is absently playing with Eli’s hair.

But June’s fingers are in her hair, and the rain is soft, and there is no landing. Just this: floating, together, in air that has always been water.

It wasn’t like the first time with Margo. That had been frantic, hungry, desperate for proof. This was slow. Deliberate. June pulled back to look at Eli, her thumb tracing Eli’s jawline.

Margo is long gone—a soft, messy beginning that taught Eli how to hold a woman’s hand in public without flinching. But that relationship burned fast, fueled by secrecy and late-night texting under the covers. Margo wasn’t ready to come out. Eli was. The breakup wasn’t a fight; it was a quiet, sad agreement that loving each other wasn’t the same as being right for each other.

“Sorry,” June said, smiling now. “That was presumptuous. Maybe you don’t need your plants to like you.”

Eli laughs. June laughs. And outside, the rain keeps falling, but inside, everything is green and growing.

Eli bought the pothos. And a calathea. And a tiny succulent she had no business owning. June wrote the care instructions on a scrap of paper in handwriting so neat it made Eli’s chest ache.