the dirt in which our roots may grow

Keith had said he was fine. He’d sat down on the couch with Lance, had put his hands in his pockets, had smiled blankly as Lance told him that it wasn’t his fault, that it was Lance, that he wasn’t happy, that he didn’t like Keith in that way anymore, that it was fun while it lasted. Keith had smiled so hard it felt like his face was permanently etched in stone, pretended his eyes weren’t watering, let Lance give him back whatever had accumulated at his apartment over the past four months, and walked out on shaky legs.Keith had said he was fine.And then the flowers had started growing.