Jay-Jay's POV
By summer, the plant had outgrown its first pot.
Grace arrived with soil and a bigger ceramic one, thumping it onto the table. "Promotion day," she declared. "Like you."
"Wow," I said. "Me and a ficus. Career icons."
But as we tipped it carefully, loosened roots, and settled it into fresh earth, something eased inside my chest. I'd kept it alive. Through the worst nights, missed meals, panic breaths—I'd still remembered to pour water.
"Looks happier," Keifer said, brushing dirt from my cheek.
"Me or the plant?"
"Both," he answered, and for once I didn't argue.
Section E life hummed softer now. Therapy days stayed on the calendar. Safety plan stayed on the fridge. Some mornings were still heavy, but they weren't all heavy anymore. There were brunches, Thames walks that didn't end in spirals, late‑night card games where I actually fought to win instead of just existing.
I still touched the grief bracelet every day. Still had moments where a pram passing by punched a hole in my breath. But the hole didn't swallow me whole anymore. It just reminded me of love that had nowhere to go but outward.
"Phase whatever‑this‑is," Keifer said one evening, wrapping an arm around my shoulders as we looked at the repotted plant. "We keep growing. Even when we didn't plan to."
I leaned into him, eyes on the new leaves reaching for light.
"Okay," I said. "Let's see where we can root next."