She brought it home on a rainy Saturday— a small pothos plant with trailing vines, its leaves slightly wilted. “It needs a little care,” she said, setting it on the windowsill. I laughed, teasing her for “adopting another stray,” but I helped her repot it anyway. We knelt on the floor together, dirt under our nails, as she explained how to water it just right. “Not too much, not too little,” she said, her fingers brushing mine when we both reached for the trowel. I looked at her then—her hair messy, a smudge of soil on her cheek—and saw her eyes light up as she talked about the plant’s roots. In that quiet moment, I thought: this is love, not the grand dates or fancy gifts, but dirt under our nails and her voice soft with passion.
We fell into a routine with the pothos. Every Sunday morning, she’d check its leaves, and I’d bring her a mug of tea. Once, I forgot—got caught up in work emails—and came home to find her sitting by the window, staring at the plant. Its leaves were still green, but her shoulders were slouched. “I thought you’d forget,” she said, but her voice didn’t sound angry—just sad. I sat next to her, taking her hand. “I’m sorry,” I said, and this time, I didn’t just say the words. I looked into her eyes, and I saw the small hurt I’d caused—the way she’d waited, quietly, for a moment we usually shared. I got up, made her tea, and together we checked the plant. She smiled when I brushed the dirt off her cheek, and her eyes softened. That night, I set a reminder on my phone: “Sunday tea + pothos check.” Not for the plant, but for her.
Last month, the pothos grew a new leaf—a tiny, bright green one, unfurling near the window. She woke me up early to show it to me, her hand warm on my arm. “Look,” she whispered, like we were sharing a secret. I rubbed my eyes, but I sat up, and when I looked at the leaf, I saw her reflection in the window—her eyes wide with joy. I pulled her close, and she laughed as I kissed her forehead. In that second, the world felt slow and sweet. I thought about all the small things: the way she hums while she cooks, how she leaves sticky notes with silly jokes on my laptop, the pothos trailing down the wall now, healthy and green. None of it is flashy, none of it is loud. But it’s ours.
Last night, it rained again. We sat on the couch, the pothos beside us, and watched the rain hit the window. She leaned her head on my shoulder, and I wrapped my arm around her. “Remember when we brought it home?” she said. I nodded, pressing a kiss to her hair. “I knew you’d take care of it,” she said, her voice soft. I looked down at her, her eyes closed, and thought: no, you’re the one I’m taking care of. The pothos is just a reminder—of the small moments, the quiet days, the love that lives in the spaces between the big things.
Love isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s a pothos plant, a mug of tea, and her eyes shining when she talks about something she loves. It’s the unseen, the unplanned, the dirt under our nails and the warmth of her hand in mine. And that’s more than enough.
