plant sees is the faint glow of the television at 2 am. You know you’re neglecting your green companion, but the guilt only sets in when they start exhibiting some seriously passive-aggressive behavior.

The Side-Eye is Real

It all started innocently enough. I adopted Ferdinand the Fiddle Leaf Fig during the peak of the pandemic, seduced by his lush foliage and the promise of bringing the outdoors in. We had a good run, Ferdinand and I. I diligently misted, fertilized, and even invested in a grow light (okay, it was a Christmas gift from my mom who was concerned about Ferdinand’s well-being). But somewhere between the return to the office and my newfound obsession with reality TV, Ferdinand started giving me “the look.”

You know the one. It’s the subtle droop of a leaf, the way his stems seem to lean away when I walk by, as if to say, “Oh, you’re finally gracing me with your presence?” I swear, if plants could sigh dramatically, Ferdinand would be giving Meryl Streep a run for her money.

The Case of the Mysterious Brown Spots

Things escalated quickly. One morning, I woke up to find a cluster of ominous brown spots decorating Ferdinand’s once-pristine leaves. Panic ensued. I googled frantically: “Brown spots on fiddle leaf fig… overwatering… underwatering… root rot… existential dread?” Okay, maybe not that last one, but it certainly felt applicable.

I repotted Ferdinand with the tenderness of a heart surgeon, whispering apologies and promises of a better life. I even downloaded a plant-tracking app, meticulously logging every watering, fertilizing, and (attempted) conversation. Yet, every time I thought we were turning a corner, another brown spot would appear. It was like he was keeping score, a physical manifestation of my plant-parenting shortcomings.

Silence Speaks Volumes

Now, I’m not saying Ferdinand is out to get me (though the evidence is admittedly compelling). But there’s a certain… judgment in his silence. While my other houseplants thrive with minimal effort—the ZZ plant practically laughs in the face of neglect, and the peace lily blooms with the enthusiasm of a first-grader on picture day—Ferdinand remains stoic, his every new leaf unfurling with the reluctance of a teenager being asked to do chores.

Perhaps I’m projecting. Maybe I’m looking for a reason to explain my own shortcomings in the attentive care of a leafy being. Or maybe, just maybe, Ferdinand is a highly evolved being, silently judging my life choices one wilted leaf at a time.