Page 106 of Unclench Me Softly

He winks and presses the seeds into the dirt like he’s tucking them in for the hottest nap of their lives. He selects the gold glitter pen, of course, and writes the phrase in looping cursive across his pot like it’s an incantation. Then he holds it up for the group to see, smiling proudly. “What?” he says. “It’s layered.”

I make a note to stage an intervention. Or maybe a second planting round with more boundaries.

Miles steps forward next.

He takes his time, as always, examining his pot, the soil, the lighting. He even checks the seed packet for instructions, which I respect and loathe simultaneously.

When he whispers to his seeds, it’s with the tone of someone delivering a lecture to the most delicate students in existence. “Stillness,” he says. “As in calm. Presence. The intentional resistance of chaos.”

Then he pulls a matte black pen from the tray, no glitter, and prints the word in all caps, centered perfectly, as though he’s writing it for future archivists to study.

Seb is next, and of course, he doesn’t speak at all.

He just kneels beside his pot, opens his pouch, and presses his seeds into the dirt with a stillness so profound it might be the intention itself.

When he picks up a pen, he doesn’t choose a color, he grabs the silver one and draws a rune. Simple. Sharp. Geometric.

I have no idea what it means, and it still wrecks me.

I blink too many times and tell myself it’s the incense smoke, not emotion.

Finally, Jonah steps forward.

He holds the seed pouch like it bit him. Crouches low, elbows on his knees. Then tilts his head toward the dirt and whispers something too quiet to hear.

It might have been a word. It might have been a growl.

He doesn’t pick a pen at first, just sits there, staring at the pot like it might explode.

Then, slowly, he reaches for the thick black one. No glitter. No flourish. He paints the entire pot black. Every inch. Silent. Methodical. A slow, creeping cloak of nothingness.

He doesn’t write a word.

Just sets the pot down when he’s done and stands, calm and unreadable.

The silence he leaves behind is… heavy. And strangely holy.

I clear my throat, smoothing my palms over my thighs like that will somehow realign my energy field after watching five men emotionally undress into potted soil.

I smile. Radiant. Shaky.

“Beautiful,” I say. “Absolutely sacred.”

Inside, I am screaming.

I lift the bowl of blessed water with both hands, holding it aloft like it’s filled with the liquid essence of rebirth and not, in fact, filtered tap water infused with rose petals and my rapidly deteriorating self-control.

“Now,” I say, keeping my voice serene even as my insides rattle like a forgotten offering bowl, “You will anoint your planted intentions. Offer them moisture. Nourishment. The sacred act of surrender to growth.”

I pass the bowl to Asher first.

He holds it like it’s precious, pours a gentle trickle into the soil, and exhales like he’s just let go of a decade’s worth of tension.

Miles does it with scientific precision, measuring out the pour as though the seeds might file a complaint if overhydrated.

Seb tips the bowl and watches the water soak in, his eyes distant, already tending something invisible.

Jonah does it like he’s performing a rite older than language. Still silent. Still impossible to read.

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