I knocked over his planter reaching for my coat

I knocked over his planter reaching for my coat,

and the sound it made was smaller than I expected—

a ceramic crack, not a shatter.

The soil spilled in a clean pyramid across his tile,

and the plant stayed mostly upright in the largest piece,

roots still holding, still stubborn.

Marcus just looked at it the way you look

at a thing that happens sometimes.

Reached down. Scooped the soil back into the broken bowl

like he was feeding something that wouldn't die.

Put the whole thing on the shelf above his radiator.

Didn't ask me to help.

Didn't say anything about fixing it.

I keep thinking about his hands brushing the dust off.

The way he didn't flinch.

The way the plant didn't either.

I wanted him to be angry—

to give me something to apologize into,

some shape the breaking could take

that made sense in my body.

But he just shrugged and moved on

like the pot was always meant to be like this:

held together by nothing but the plant's own refusal to fall,

and I was the careless one

who made that visible,

who proved it could be broken

and still

keep growing.