I thought we were planting a garden.
So I watered yours the way you needed me to. Every time the leaves drooped, I poured a little more. Every time the blooms faded, I reached for the watering can again. I loved you the way you asked to be loved because I believed that if your garden felt safe enough, one day we'd both grow.
You watered mine too.
But somewhere along the way, I realized we weren't watering the same places.
Your flowers kept asking for more water.
My roots kept waiting for rain.
When I finally noticed how dry my own garden had become, I stepped back and started watering my roots. I hoped you'd join me. I hoped we'd learn to tend to ourselves so we could return to each other and build something that could survive every season.
Instead, your garden began to dry without mine.
That's when I realized I had mistaken being someone's rain for helping them believe they could weather a drought.
I kept tending to my own soil, hoping one day you'd notice your own. Hoping we'd meet in the middle, each carrying our own watering can, each responsible for our own roots, so that when we stood beside each other, we could bloom together instead of depending on one another to survive.
By the time I looked over again, your garden was green.
But there was a fence around it.
And for the first time, I understood that loving someone and growing beside them aren't always the same thing.
