The air outside was cool and crisp, but my mood stayed heavy. I knelt in front of my bougainvillea, its once-brilliant blooms now limp and lifeless. It looked worse than yesterday.
A pang of guilt tightened in my chest. My precious plant—my only plant—was fading, and I could do nothing to stop it.
I ran my fingers gently over its brittle leaves, a lump forming in my throat.
"Why won't Mom let me use the fertilizer?" I muttered under my breath, my eyes darting to the roses standing tall and proud across the garden. Their vibrant crimson petals glistened in the sunlight, mocking me with their perfection.
I straightened up, my gaze narrowing at them. Mom poured everything into those roses. Fertilizer, water, care—nothing was spared for her "treasures." Meanwhile, my bougainvillea was left to fight for survival on its own.
"Stupid roses," I grumbled, biting the inside of my cheek.
It wasn't the roses' fault, of course. They were just flowers, oblivious to the favoritism that made me resent them. But that didn't stop the bitterness from bubbling up.
I stood, brushing the dirt from my hands. My eyes darted to the small shed where Mom kept the fertilizer.
'Would she even notice if I used just a little?' I wondered.
But I knew better. One glance at the roses, and she'd know. And when she did, she wouldn't hold back. A scolding for being careless, for disrespecting her "art."
I sighed heavily, turning back to my plant. Its wilted leaves hung limply, as if they, too, had given up. My chest ached as I crouched down again, my fingers lightly brushing its stem.
"Don't give up on me yet," I whispered. "We'll figure this out. Together."
It wasn't much of a promise, but it was all I could offer.
The sound of my sister's footsteps snapped me out of my thoughts.
"Still sulking over that plant?" she asked, peering down at me with a mix of amusement and exasperation.
I didn't bother looking up. "Missed your school bus, genius?"
She sighed in frustration before getting snarky again. "Why don't you just ask Mom for the fertilizer?"
I gave her a pointed look. "You know how that'll go."
She shrugged, leaning against the mango tree. "You're so dramatic. It's just a plant."
My jaw tightened. She didn't get it. Nobody did.
"It's not just a plant," I said quietly, my voice firmer than I expected.
She rolled her eyes but didn't argue. Instead, she straightened up and adjusted her schoolbag. "Whatever".
Her words stung more than I wanted to admit.
As her footsteps faded, I stayed rooted to the spot, staring at my bougainvillea. I had to do something. Anything.
The roses swayed gently in the breeze, their bright red petals mocking me silently.
"It's not fair," I muttered.
But fairness had nothing to do with it. I'd learned that long ago.
I brushed my fingers over the soil around the plant's base, tamping it down gently. "Hang in there," I murmured. "I'll figure this out."
With one last glance at my wilting bougainvillea, I stood and headed back toward the house, steeling myself for whatever the rest of the day had in store.
The air inside felt warmer than outside, almost stifling as I stepped back into the house. I've never liked this kind of warmth. Being cold was much better. It was comfy—safe.
Mom's sharp voice cut through the stillness like a blade. "What were you even doing in the bathroom for so long, Lina? You'll be late!"
In the dining room, Lina stood fidgeting, chewing her lip as her eyes darted around nervously. Typical. She knew better than to argue back after all the times she'd been scolded.
I sighed, already knowing where this was headed. "I'll take her to school, Mom," I said, my voice laced with resignation.
Lina's face brightened with relief, but Mom wasn't as easily pacified. She turned to me, frowning. "You're coddling her too much. She needs to learn to take care of herself."
"Yeah, yeah…" I muttered, brushing her off as I headed upstairs. "I'll get ready now."
"Good. Make it fast, or she'll be late," she added, her tone clipped and urgent.
I fought the urge to roll my eyes, exhaling a long breath as I climbed the stairs. Mom had this uncanny way of turning everything into a crisis, and it was exhausting.
When I reached my room, I hesitated at the door. These days, it felt less like a sanctuary and more like a dumping ground—a place to store my things and nothing else. I haven't slept here in months. Lina couldn't handle being alone at night, and after… well, after everything, Mom and Dad weren't exactly keen on leaving me alone either.
"What a drag," I muttered, pushing the door open and heading straight for the wardrobe.
I rummaged through my clothes, the weight from earlier settling back over me like a suffocating blanket. The bougainvillea's image surfaced in my mind: its limp, lifeless form; its leaves curling inward as if it were retreating from the world. My jaw tightened, and I shoved the thought away.
"Not now," I whispered to myself. I didn't have time for this.
Grabbing a set of clothes, I headed to the bathroom. The tiles were cool beneath my feet, a stark contrast to the warmth of the house. I let the cold water splash against my face, jolting me fully awake. The suffocation that bared it's fangs, now retreating into the recess of my mind.
When I stepped out of the shower, I caught sight of my reflection in the foggy mirror. I looked every bit as worn-out as I felt.
"It's just another day," I murmured, brushing the mirror with my hand to clear the steam. "Just get through it."
With that, I dried my hair, dressed quickly, and steeled myself to face the chaos of the day. I can do it.