8:42 a.m., Wednesday, July 15, 2025.
On the 37th floor of a Midtown Manhattan office building, the open-plan workspace is already filled with the first whiff of coffee. As I slide the last folder into my drawer, my fingertip accidentally bumps a glass at the corner of my desk. The dark Americano sloshes, splashing onto the walnut-colored surface.

Just as I reach for a tissue, my gaze lands on the monstera plant by the desk corner — deep green leaves cradling droplets the size of coffee beans, glittering softly in the morning light.

I chuckle and shake my head. Even the dewdrops on this artificial plant look convincingly real.

Sunlight filters through the slats of the blinds, casting golden lines of varying lengths across the grey carpet. The printer has just stopped humming. Mark, at the next workstation, is typing away. The rhythm of his keyboard is like a light drizzle.

My desk, the third from the window, shines from a fresh polish. A half-foot stack of market reports sits to the left, and to the right is the 1.2-meter-tall faux monstera. Next to it, two small artificial succulents perch, their chubby leaves seemingly kissed with “morning dew.”

I inhale deeply — the scent of Colombian roast mingles with the citrus from Mark’s aftershave and the cedarwood diffuser I ordered two days ago. Or wait — that subtle trace of “green” might actually be coming from the monstera. No wonder people often ask, “Did your team start growing herbs?”

Running my fingers along the edge of a leaf, I notice its texture — slightly rough, yet firm, sturdier than the real monstera I once bought. That one looked lush at first, but I always forgot to water it. After three straight days of meetings, I’d come back to find it drooping, with leaf tips burnt like scorched paper.

Later, the cleaning lady mentioned the survival rate of real plants on this floor was under 30%. They either got dehydrated from the air conditioning or knocked over by overworked employees.

“Lily, is that a new plant?” intern Emma asks, pausing mid-step with a stack of files in her arms. Her pale yellow blouse makes her look like a little sunbeam amid the office’s muted palette.

She leans in, touching a leaf. “It feels so real… Is this a real monstera? I saw one downstairs last week — over two hundred bucks!”

The sunlight lands right on the leaf’s perforations, casting delicate dots onto Mark’s keyboard. Emma peers closer and gasps, “Look at the veins — even the tiniest ones are visible! And this new leaf — it’s curled up like a kitten’s paw.” She touches the “new” leaf and finds it fixed to the main stem. Laughing, she exclaims, “So it’s fake? I thought you turned into a plant whisperer overnight.”

I hand her a mint and watch her toss the wrapper into the bin. “Didn’t you tease me last month for killing my succulent?” Emma sticks out her tongue — indeed, that poor plant had withered into a clump of hay, which I discreetly tossed into the building’s plant recycling bin.

“But this one looks livelier than a real plant,” she says, walking to the other side of the desk. “See how the sunlight makes the leaf glow that perfect translucent green? Even better than the one on my balcony.” She lowers her voice, “And no watering? That’s ideal for us. I went on a five-day business trip, and my pothos turned to mush. The soil reeked.”

I glance at the monstera, recalling when I ordered it. It was marketed as a new model — fade-resistant leaves, waterproof ceramic pot. When I spilled coffee into it last week, I panicked. But it wiped clean, not a trace left behind.

“I originally planned to get a real plant,” I say, turning my mug slowly. Its surface reflects the outline of the monstera. “But after that department dinner, I came back to find my fiddle-leaf fig had been blown off the windowsill. Soil everywhere — even in the keyboard. Took all afternoon to clean.”

Emma grimaces. Of course, she remembers how grim I looked that day.

“But this one — even when Jason bumped into it while moving the file cabinet, not a single leaf fell off.” I flick a leaf that hangs over the desk edge. “And look, it’s always this open and full. No sudden drooping surprises.”

By noon, sunlight has turned bright and warm, crawling across the faux succulent leaves. I munch on a sandwich and watch Sophie across the way stifling a yawn at her barren desk, which holds only a pink pen holder.

“Want a fake plant too?” I nod toward her. “I saw some mini desk ones on Amazon yesterday — just over thirty bucks.”

Sophie leans over, eyes lighting up at my monstera. “That color is so soothing. Way better than staring at a white wall. We should have some in the meeting rooms too — those long meetings feel so stuffy.” She touches a leaf and smiles, “Feels almost real. No wonder I thought it was live when I walked past.”

Our 3 p.m. meeting drags on. When I finally return to my desk, my shoulders are stiff as iron. But then I see that burst of green, and something in me loosens.

The setting sun stretches the blinds’ shadows across the wall. The artificial monstera casts dancing patterns like the tree shadows in my grandmother’s yard when I was little.

I make myself a hot cocoa. As steam rises, the monstera seems to breathe with me.

Thinking of what Emma said this morning, maybe I really should suggest to Admin that everyone gets one — after all, a patch of evergreen comfort is always welcome when you’re weary.

Before I leave, I notice a leaf has blown onto my monitor, like a green butterfly resting. I gently lift it away, remembering how sterile the office felt when I first joined — nothing but the smell of ink and coffee. Now, with this plant here, even Mark’s typing sounds a little livelier.

As I lock my computer, Emma’s message pops up:
“Just ordered a mini faux pothos!” — followed by a happy emoji.

Outside, the sky darkens. The office lights blink on, casting a soft glow on the monstera leaves, making the green look even gentler.

Maybe tomorrow, I’ll bring a small desk lamp for it — so it can keep me company during late nights.

Just as I close the door, I glance back — the artificial monstera stands silently in the dusk, waiting for morning light to fill the room again.