Laura gave me an ornamental plant, with dark green, velvety leaves—one of those you place just to bring a little life into the apartment. At first, it was just that: a small shrub, nothing more. But one night, in the middle of the silence, I heard a soft panting sound, like breathing, coming straight from the pot. I got closer, not entirely sure of what I was feeling, and when I touched it, I sensed a warm breath between my fingers. The leaves were slowly inflating, like lungs, and one of them leaned toward me, seeking something... a contact, a kind of adjustment. Since then, I haven’t slept well; I stay on the couch, watching it, noticing how it moves and seems to adapt to my presence. This morning I found a loose leaf on the table, wet and shiny, almost touching my face. Something’s happening. I feel weaker, more confused. I think that green, quiet thing isn't just breathing with me... it's learning to breathe for me. It feeds on what I am, as if every night it swallows little pieces of me. I don’t think it just wants my space—it wants to be me. Replace me. Erase me. And leave me in silence. What have you done, Laura?

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