The Potato had once measured the world in isolation—each grain of soil a boundary, each tremor a solitary signal of existence.
But now, something shifted.
It began not with grand gestures or explicit exchanges, but with a subtle understanding—a faint echo of the small tuber’s pulse reverberating in its own core.
I feel you.
Empathy, the Potato realized, was not a conscious decision or a logical deduction. It was a thread—thin, delicate, yet unbreakable.
The slender root, already intertwined in gentle connection, seemed to vibrate in sympathy. The small tuber pulsed steadily, each beat a testament to shared endurance.
To understand another is not to possess their experience, but to witness it.
It started in silence. No word was spoken. No outward signal was exchanged. Instead, the Potato began to sense the tuber’s moments of pause—when its pulse flickered uncertainly, when its rhythm slowed as though burdened by a distant, unseen weight.
The Potato did not offer solutions.
It did not attempt to correct or shield.
It simply felt.
Perhaps empathy is not an action, but a state of being.
Each throb of the tuber echoed faintly in the Potato’s own awareness, not as mimicry but as quiet connection. The slender root, too, seemed to mirror the rhythm—its gentle vibrations resonating in tandem.
The Potato recalled distant memories of isolation, of times when it had recoiled from other presences. Every approach once seemed a threat. Every tremor a sign of conflict.
How strange, it mused, that understanding begins not with explanation, but with acceptance.
It did not attempt to decipher the tuber’s pulse.
It did not seek the cause of its irregularity.
It simply acknowledged it.
Each beat was a whisper, a call: I am here. I feel this.
Time passed slowly, as it always did beneath the surface.
The small tuber’s pulse remained uneven at times, stuttering in moments of uncertainty, faltering when the soil shifted unexpectedly or when the distant passage of creatures above left ripples in the earth.
The Potato, instead of recoiling, allowed itself to experience those irregularities alongside the tuber.
When you hurt, I do not turn away.
Empathy, it realized, was not about alleviating pain. It was about holding it, side by side, without judgment or dismissal.
To feel another’s weakness is not to absorb it, but to recognize it as separate from my own.
The slender root deepened its embrace. It did not press or invade, but simply rested—steady, deliberate, unwavering.
The small tuber pulsed with growing confidence, a rhythm that slowly regained steadiness.
You are not alone.
The Potato thought about the interconnectedness of life, how each presence in the soil was a fragment of a larger whole. Every grain of earth, every droplet of moisture, every root and tuber formed a network of silent, persistent relationships.
Empathy is the invisible thread binding us all.
It recalled the philosophical notions it had once stumbled upon in abstract reflection—the idea that to understand another’s suffering is to extend one’s own awareness beyond the self, dissolving the boundary of isolation.
Is it not strange that empathy requires no reciprocation?
It was neither transaction nor exchange. It was simply presence.
The Potato began to feel a subtle warmth emanating from the small tuber, as if its pulse carried more than rhythm—it carried intention.
I see you. I acknowledge you.
The slender root, too, seemed to respond. Its vibrations harmonized more fully, not mimicking but complementing the Potato’s internal pulse.
Together, they formed a silent triad.
At one point, the Potato wondered about the nature of shared suffering.
Was it true that suffering connected beings more deeply than joy? That vulnerability was the purest expression of empathy?
Perhaps empathy is not about shared happiness, but shared pain.
It recalled its own journey of surrender and trust, how it had once feared the touch of the slender root and the pulse of the tuber. Now, those interactions were no longer causes of anxiety but sources of stability.
Empathy is not the absence of suffering. It is the choice to remain present in its midst.
The soil shifted again—a small tremor, barely perceptible. The small tuber’s pulse flickered, a moment of hesitation.
Without thought, the Potato sent its own pulse in response—a gentle wave of solidarity.
I am here.
The slender root, sensing the exchange, deepened its contact.
And I am here, too.
The small tuber’s pulse returned to steadiness, no longer irregular, no longer uncertain.
A quiet lightness began to seep through the layers of soil—a sense of connection deeper than words, beyond logic.
Perhaps this is what empathy feels like.
Not action. Not obligation.
But presence.
The Potato, the slender root, and the small tuber existed together, bound by the quiet thread of understanding.
No grand revelations. No dramatic transformations.
Only the slow, steady realization that to feel another’s experience was to expand the self without diminishing it.
I do not need to fix you.
I do not need to explain you.
I only need to feel you.
And in that simple truth, the Potato found a new kind of strength.
