The Plant
Relationships
May 9, 2026
By olivia.mukherjee1986
Thursday evening. Most people were gone. Arjun stood beside it with his steel bottle.
"You have terrible survival instincts," he told the money plant quietly.
"You know talking only works if you water it too, right?"
He nearly dropped the bottle.
A woman at the photocopier. Files against her chest. Curly hair tied badly — badly enough to suggest she'd done it while thinking about something else.
Seventh floor. Finance. He had seen her before.
"I was watering it," he said.
"You were emotionally preparing."
"Important part of the process."
She crouched beside the pot.
"Oh," she said softly. "This is really bad. You were right to scold it."
He laughed before he could stop it. Short. Almost surprised, like it had escaped without permission.
She looked up immediately, catching it.
Together, without discussing it, they moved the pot from the window. She loosened the soil with a pen. He poured water slowly into the planter.
“A fighting chance,” she said.
"You seem quite confident for someone performing surgery with office stationery."
"It worked."
That should have been it.
Next morning. A sticky note appeared on the pot.
Still alive.
— Mira
— Mira
Below it, a smiley face.
He took out a pen.
Low standards for survival.
— Arjun
— Arjun
By lunch, another note.
That's literally all survival is.
For three months, they did not exchange numbers. They exchanged notes.
Plant update: one new leaf. Against all odds.
You sound disappointed.
I distrust sudden optimism.
That's because you work in operations.
That's because I have eyes.
Arjun started arriving ten minutes early.
Mira started leaving slightly late.
Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to get a glimpse of each other.
One rainy evening he found her on the floor beside the window, chips from the packet, watching the city blur.
"Bad day?" he asked.
"Define bad."
"Crying in the office bathroom."
"Nope."
“Then… tax fraud?”
"Not worth it, too much paperwork."
He sat beside her. Careful space between them.
"My almost-fiancé is getting married," she said eventually. "To someone else. Apparently."
"Almost?"
"He cheated. Very inefficiently. I practically discovered him by accident because men are incapable of subtlety."
"Oh."
"That was your entire reaction?"
"I don't know him well enough to hate him properly yet."
She laughed. A real one. Covered her mouth immediately after.
He noticed she did that often. Hid joy the moment it arrived.
"I wasted four years on this stupid relationship," she said quietly.
"I don't think caring about someone is a waste," he said.
She looked at him.
"You talk like someone's writing it down."
"What do you mean?"
"You build sentences carefully. Then hand them over. Like folded clothes."
He looked away first. That was new.
After that she appeared in his life in small permanent ways.
A blue mug got added to his kitchen because she hated his white ones. Handwritten labels on the spice jars — apparently it makes life easier.
One Sunday she fell asleep on his couch mid-movie. Head on his shoulder.
He sat still for forty minutes. Not because he had to. Because he wanted to.
She had started trusting him enough to sleep around him.
That landed heavier than attraction ever had.
Then she disappeared.
Still came to office. Still said the distant hi, the occasional good morning, the automatic see you.
But the notes stopped. The waiting stopped. The softness - gone.
He lasted four days.
Friday. Parking lot. She was looking for something in her bag with the focus of someone not looking for anything.
"Mira."
"Hmm?"
"Did I do something?"
Her fingers stopped.
"No."
"You left a note for ninety-two consecutive working days."
Silence.
"Ninety-two?"
"I counted accidentally."
"Really? That's the first time you lied to me."
She shut her bag harder than necessary.
"He's getting married next month. And I am not handling it as well as I thought." A pause. "I liked you before I was done grieving him. And I hate that about myself."
“So, you think loving someone betrays the version of you that got hurt,” he said.
She stared at him.
"Folded clothes again. Nice..."
“I’m trying very hard to be messy. I promise.”
She laughed once. Painfully.
"Look, I don't want to break near you."
There it was. Not fear of loving him. Fear of being fully seen by him.
He stepped closer.
"Why not? I think there's at least one person in everyone's life," he said slowly, "in front of whom breaking stops feeling embarrassing."
“I want to be that person for you. Can I?”
She couldn’t hold it anymore, she hugged him as tightly as she could, "You already are, I just didn’t realize."
She started crying. Angrily. Which felt completely consistent.
"Wonderful," she muttered. "Crying in a parking lot like a divorced aunt."
He smiled. Then reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Small. Careful.
Her eyes closed briefly. Not pain. Relief.
"I don't know how to do this properly," she whispered.
"Neither do I."
"You're supposed to say something reassuring."
"Sure, give me a minute."
She laughed through tears. He laughed, too.
Later. After the rain. After the building lights went to half and the city outside settled into its quieter register.
She looked up at him.
"Do you know when I fell in love with you?"
He shook his head.
"The plant."
"The dying one?"
"You watered it like it mattered."
He frowned. "It did matter."
She smiled then. Warm. Tired. Completely unguarded. The kind of smile that doesn't perform itself.
"Yeah," she said softly. "That's when I knew."