The ficus takes a turn for the worse on a Wednesday morning.
I know this because Lucas wakes me before my alarm, his hand gentle on my shoulder and his voice soft but urgent. "Vivian. It's the ficus. Something's wrong."
I'm out of bed before I'm fully awake, my unicorn pajamas soft against my skin and my heart pounding with a fear I don't fully understand. It's just a plant, I tell myself. Just a collection of leaves and stems and roots. But it's not just a plant. It's the living thing that Lucas saved when I nearly killed it with overwatering. It's the silent witness to his morning confessions, the keeper of secrets he couldn't tell anyone else. It's family.
The study is dim when I enter, lit only by the gray morning light filtering through the windows. Lucas has already turned on a small lamp beside the ficus, and in its warm glow I can see exactly how bad things have become.
