We left the apartment for a week, because we needed fresh air, because we wanted to travel and we wanted to see the path of our time together. We packed in a hurry, we turned off the lights and the gas in the same way, we close the door with the annoying sound of a horn; to see within a week, the error of our ways, and the door of the fridge open. To elaborate a magnificent list of supplies would be nonsensical, the truth is we only had a bottle on milk, a potato and an onion.

In our trip we saw mosques and archaeological sites, we climb mountains and walked frozen deserts, and we examined our souls along the way. We thought about our individuality, about the existentialism of our beings and we laughed at those who think they know the word. We realized that our own understanding of the idea, and thought of true identity were the things holding us together. A single soul in our world of two. The perfect understanding of love. Back home, when the taxi arrived at our building, we were happy, because we endured the odds, we had beaten them. We hold hands in the elevator. He opened the door to see our place and our almost dead plant. When I left the bags I went straight to the kitchen just to realize our mistake. I called him and we looked at each other with surprise, but it wasn’t a big deal. We looked inside to see the sour milk, and one really strange potato with one really strange onion. They had germinated. Long yellow tentacles grew from the insides of the onion and weird spiky columns from the potato. And it was fine, because they did what we did: grow.