Sarah placed the ficus on her desk, its leaves drooping in the harsh fluorescent light above her cubicle.
“Now, don’t let this place overwhelm you,” she cooed.
“It isn’t the place, but the perspective,” a soft voice whispered.
Sarah blinked and looked around the office. Her colleagues typed away, lost in their screens; some were talking on calls. All of them oblivious.
“I’m down here,” came the voice.
Sarah glanced at her desk, her vision blurry. Slowly, the plant came into focus.
“I’m losing my mind, surely,” she muttered.
“If you’d gone mad, you’d be imagining something far more exciting than a talking house plant,” the plant said dryly.
Weeks passed, and Sarah frequently confided in the peculiar leafy plant. The ficus proved helpful, pointing out ways to better communicate with her coworkers, sharing tips on how to eat lower-calorie lunches, and even rekindling her passion for urban photography.
“It’s time to ask for that promotion,” the plant whispered, one Tuesday morning. “You won’t realise your potential working in this stuffy cubicle.”
Sarah twisted her lips with her fingers. “But I really don’t think I’m-”
