I had three different ribbons in my lap, all the wrong shade of green. Too minty, too olive, too "Christmas tree trying too hard." None of them matched the tiny pressed violets I was trying to weave into the garland. You, of course, didn't notice my internal war with the color spectrum — you were too busy setting yet another potted fern on my windowsill, like the room wasn't already ninety percent foliage.

"Honestly," I said, tugging the ribbon between my fingers, "if you keep sneaking plants in here, one day I'm going to wake up photosynthesizing."

You didn't flinch at the jab, just gave me that serene, patient smile — the kind that always makes me feel like you know something about me I don't yet. You started telling me how the fern "balances the air," then drifted into a story about the ivy I'd braided into last week's banner — apparently, it was a cutting from your grandmother's grove. Your voice was so calm and steady, the kind of voice you could build a whole afternoon around.

I pretended to roll my eyes, but really, I loved when you did that — slipped little pieces of your history into my mess of ribbons and yarn. It made my chaos feel a little less like chaos.

The violets, meanwhile, were rebelling. No matter how carefully I threaded them into the weave, they crinkled and curled, refusing to sit flat. I groaned, wings flicking irritably in the light. "Why do flowers always have to be so dramatic?"