The Houseplant That Outlived Me

The Houseplant That Outlived Me

By Hasnain Shah

I was bought for decoration. That is what I remember most clearly. A small green thing, bright and unassuming, placed in a chipped ceramic pot patterned with painted daisies. The cashier had smiled, said something like “Plants are good for the soul,” and slid me across the counter without realizing how much truth was hidden in her words.

Back then, I lived on the windowsill of a one-bedroom apartment. Sunlight warmed my leaves most mornings, and someone—her—would water me with a glass half-full of tap water. She spoke to me sometimes. Not in words, exactly, but in sighs. A humming under her breath when she washed the dishes. A soft laugh that shook the walls when she was on the phone. I grew strong in those days, reaching upward, stretching toward the light like a child raising its hands.

But then the humming stopped.

At first it was small things: the curtains left closed long after morning arrived, the dishes piling high, the silence that sat heavier and heavier in the air. She still watered me, though less often, and always with a distracted look, as though she wasn’t sure why she bothered. I could feel her gaze on me, puzzled, almost resentful, as if my persistence reminded her of something she wanted to forget.

I did what plants do best. I endured.

The soil dried out for longer stretches, and my leaves curled inwards. Dust collected on me like a thin coat of sadness. Once, I heard her mutter, “I should just throw you out.” But she didn’t. Perhaps neglect was easier than action.

Time inside that apartment began to feel like an endless night. The clock ticked, the air grew stale, and her footsteps grew slower, softer, less frequent. She stayed in bed longer. Some days she never left at all. She stopped eating, except for crackers or spoonfuls of peanut butter. And though she barely noticed me, I noticed her—the way she stared at the ceiling for hours, the way she cried without making a sound, the way she whispered apologies to no one.

Plants don’t pray, but if we did, I would have prayed for her.

Then came the day she forgot me entirely. Weeks passed without water, and my stems shriveled to thin stalks. My roots clawed at the dry soil, desperate, holding on. I bent, but I didn’t break. One stubborn green leaf clung to life, almost in defiance. She saw me once, perhaps by accident, and something flickered across her face—shame, I think. She poured an entire pitcher of water into the pot, flooding me until the dish below overflowed. It nearly drowned me, but I drank every drop I could.

I think she envied me then. Envied my refusal to give up.

The seasons shifted outside, though I could only glimpse them through the crack in the curtains. Summer heat baked the room, then autumn chill seeped in, then the long gray of winter. She rarely left her bed anymore. When she did, her steps were unsteady, as though gravity itself weighed too much. And then one morning, she did not rise at all.

I knew before anyone else did. The silence was absolute. Days passed before the landlord arrived, keys jangling, muttering under his breath. They found her then. The room filled with strangers who whispered words like tragedy and too young. I listened, rooted, silent. They carried her away, but no one thought to carry me.

So I stayed.

Weeks turned into months. Dust gathered again, thicker this time. The air changed owners, footsteps replaced hers, laughter replaced silence. Someone else opened the curtains, and light returned. They nearly tossed me out then—I was brittle, dry, clinging to my last veins of green—but curiosity made them keep me. A little water, a little patience, and I came back. Plants are stubborn that way.

Now I sit in another corner, in another home, with people who talk and sing and slam doors. They don’t know my history, or the way I once stood guard through nights of tears. They don’t know that I lived through her loneliness, or that in my quiet persistence I outlasted her.

I was bought for decoration, yes. But I became a witness. I became proof that even in neglect, something can hold on. Something can grow. Something can outlive the silence.

I am the houseplant that outlived her. And though my leaves are green again, I carry her shadow in my soil.