Green Where You Water It

They said romance was dead. But romance had clearly never attended a mandatory icebreaker.

We met in a beige conference room where the chairs were arranged in a circle to encourage connection. A laminated sign on the wall read: WELCOME! in a font that suggested forced optimism.

The facilitator clapped her hands.

“Let’s start with a fun question!” she said. “If you were an object in a kitchen, what would you be?”

“I would be the emotional support mug,” he said immediately. Not a pause. Not a blink. Just certainty.

Something in my soul shifted.

When it was my turn, I panicked and said, “The drawer that jams for no reason.”

He nodded like this was sacred knowledge.

During the next activity, we were instructed to share a fun fact. He confessed he owned seven identical black sweaters because “decision fatigue is the enemy.” I admitted I once Googled how to end a conversation politely while still in the conversation.

We made eye contact for too long. This felt intimate. Possibly illegal.

The facilitator passed out worksheets titled DISCOVER YOUR COMMUNICATION STYLE. We were paired together by fate, chance, or the facilitator’s clipboard. Our knees touched. Neither of us adjusted.

“On a scale from one to five,” the worksheet asked, “how comfortable are you with vulnerability?”

He circled three and a half.

I wrote it depends on the lighting.

We laughed quietly, rebelliously, as if closeness were a rule we were breaking instead of the entire point of the exercise.

At the coffee break, he offered me the last stale cookie. It was dry, slightly cracked, clearly leftover from a previous fiscal year. I accepted. Though not romantic in the traditional sense, it felt binding. We chewed thoughtfully, like two people who understood that joy often arrives underwhelming and slightly dry.

By the end of the session, we were asked to share one word that described how we felt.

Others said things like energized and inspired.

He said, “Seen.”

I said, “Concerned, but hopeful.”

There was polite applause.

As people started packing up, the facilitator reminded us to fill out the feedback form and “take the connection you’ve built today into the world.” She smiled like she’d personally arranged our chairs.

He lingered.

“So,” he said, gesturing vaguely between us, “do you want to… continue this conversation in a less structured environment?”

I said yes too quickly.

He pulled out his phone. I pulled out mine. We exchanged numbers with the seriousness of diplomats concluding a treaty. He typed my name carefully. I added a mug emoji to his.

We stood there for a moment, uncertain how to end this without a worksheet guiding us.

“Well,” he said, “text me if you ever feel like discussing drawer-related trauma.”

“I will,” I said. “Or sweaters.”

He smiled. I smiled. We left in opposite directions, immediately texting each other to confirm the numbers worked.

They did.

Some love stories begin with sparks.

Ours began with laminated paper, stale cookies, and mutual agreement that vulnerability is easier when the chairs are arranged in a circle.