Lukas and I met in the strangest way: we both used a purple-edged succulent as our profile picture.
He was a German exchange student and was obsessed with plants, just like me. During his short three months in Hanoi, we explored every plant market together, from Hang Ma Market, weaving through the small alleys of Hoang Hoa Tham, all the way to the Nhat Tan nurseries.
One day, we bought a small succulent together, the kind with delicate pink-dusted edges. We put it on my balcony and jokingly called it our “love fern”, like in the romantic comedy.
But time isn’t romantic; it moves too fast.
The day Lukas had to return home, we stood silently on the balcony, looking at the plant. I didn’t believe in long-distance relationships; they were too fragile. I believed even less in promises; they were too empty.
But Lukas just pointed to the succulent, his voice warm and low: “If this plant lives… In one year, when I finish my studies, I will come back. And if you still want to then, let’s officially date, okay?”
It was a strange promise, suspending our beginning on the vitality of a plant.
For that one year, I cared for that succulent so meticulously, my roommate teased, “it’s probably about to start speaking”. I was terrified of overwatering it, terrified of it not getting enough sun. Every week, I sent a picture of the plant to Lukas. It grew, stretching, its pink edges becoming more vibrant.
A year later, at the Noi Bai arrivals hall, Lukas walked out. In his hands, he was carefully carrying a brand new succulent, a “snow” echeveria, the kind I had once mentioned I loved.
He smiled, a smile that erased all distance: “Your plant lived. I’m back to keep my promise.”
Today, that “love fern” is still on my balcony, unusually lush and green. And Lukas is right here beside me.
wonderfull
hihi