Isabela lets a flower die every time she finds a split end in her hair. She does it in her room, alone and out of sight, quietly, observing the imperfections (her own and the flower's, which are one and the same) with a morbid sense of satisfaction.

She always trims the hair and revives the flower.

Sometimes Isabela thinks of Mirabel as she does it, of her bouncing curls and the way she never seems to brush her hair, and she wonders if Mirabel ever notices her own split ends or if she notices Isabela's, and she wonders whether Mirabel cares, at all, about all the dead flowers Isabela keeps alive.