“You’re staring,” Eli whispered.

Their first date was at June’s apartment, which smelled like rosemary and old books. June made pasta with jarred sauce and claimed it was “a family recipe.” Eli burned her tongue because she was too busy watching June talk about her favorite tree (a eucalyptus, because it sheds its bark and starts over).

“I’m memorizing,” June said.

That was four years ago. Now, Eli is twenty-one, and she knows the difference between loving someone and being in love with the idea of finally being seen.

That girl’s name was Margo, and she had bitten her lipstick off during a physics exam. They met in the bathroom. Margo was crying because she’d failed a test; Eli was hiding from the pep rally. By the end of the period, they were sharing a single earbud and listening to a band Eli had never heard of. By the end of the week, Eli had rewritten her entire understanding of the word home .

Then she met June.

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.

June’s smile turned into something softer. She wiped her hands on her apron and extended one. “I’m June.”

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

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

Eli shook it. Her palm was warm, slightly calloused. “Eli.”

“I love you,” Eli says. It’s not the first time. It’s not even the hundredth. But it lands differently tonight—softer, heavier with meaning.

For three weeks, Eli found excuses to go back. The pothos looks yellow. Is that bad? (June texted back: Stop overwatering it. And stop looking for reasons to see me. ) Eli’s heart stopped. Then June texted again: Just come over Saturday. We can water it together.

“I know,” June says, smiling that small, crooked smile. Then she leans down and kisses Eli’s forehead. “I love you too. Even when you overwater the plants.”

Eli didn’t date for a year after that. She painted her room the color of storm clouds, read every sapphic novel her local bookstore had, and learned how to be alone without feeling lonely.