The plant was just rooted in the soil that wasn’t built for you. You kept reaching for sunlight that filtered through someone else’s leaves, stretching your green heart toward warmth that never stayed. I watered you with promises, thin as morning mist. I said you were growing beautifully while your petals curled at the edges. It wasn’t that you were too fragile. It wasn’t that you asked for too much light. You were simply planted where the ground could not hold you where love was gravel and pride was clay, where rain pooled but never nourished. You tried to bloom anyway. God, how you tried. Breaking yourself open in seasons that never meant to keep you alive. And I mistook survival for thriving. The truth is some roots aren’t weak, they’re misplaced. Some hearts don’t fail, they’re just buried in hands that don’t know how to tend them. So when you finally loosened from my soil, when you chose wind over withering, it wasn’t abandonment. It was replanting.