And this day began much like the rest, with me ever sitting upon the windowsill. The sun was just about to begin its rise -- that light orange color was peaking out from behind the curtain of clouds, awaiting its cue -- and sure enough, the alarm screamed from across the room. Matthew flung out a limp arm, seeking to silence the blaring siren. I was waiting, like every other day, for him to pay me a second of favor, let even a drop of sustenance fall upon the pocket-sized Earth to which I was confined. Instead, he passed by blindly, squinting in the darkness to find the light switch and prepare one of his collection of pressed office-suits to be worn. I gazed longingly as Matthew grabbed a paper cup from under his sink and began filling it with water from the sink. With it, he downed his daily tablet, which he took at exactly the same time every single day. I imagined the water playing with his tongue, dancing down his dry throat. I tasted the refreshment, and I almost felt rejuvenated. Matthew passed by for the last time he would with light still shining, as he always got back deep in the dark hours. He would grab his keys, take a bite of toast, and slam the door behind him. Soon after, his frantic steps would sound from outside, pounding against the asphalt in desperation. The desperation from when he had first picked me. I had been searching the sun for answers when the daily shower alarm sounded from above. Everyone on the shelf got excited, readying themselves for the controlled rain that would never be enough. They would start soon, and the enthusiasm of the others felt like thorns pinching in on me. I, however, never looked forward to this time of day. I was not meant to be watered daily, and the overflowing of my veins weighed more on me every day. It wouldn't be hard to take some of the pots out from under the spray, but that was still too much effort for the supervisors to input. Therefore, I never output any more effort. My scarlet flowers were browned, and the rot inside me had begun to spread outwards. However, for once, someone had entered the store who was not looking for beauty. They only saw the price tag on my pot, and the discount beside it. With simple math, I was of the cheapest plants in the store, and certainly the most healthy-looking of them, despite my blackened edges. Matthew took one look at me and decided I was perfect. His panicked footsteps ran towards me; his panicked arms threw me into the air. I was rushed through the checkout, then placed in the back of the tired car haphazardly. Matthew had been mistaken in purchasing me. He had forgotten his boss's birthday, sure, but he had also forgotten her innate hatred for plants, even the easiest to care for. She despised anything that took any of her attention from her work, as her work was her life. She thought she was content and fulfilled. When Matthew's coworker whispered to him, his words crashing into one-another in a series of marathons, that the boss would most certainly hate the gift, Matthew uttered an inelegant sentence and threw me back into his car. I had no qualms. I had still gotten chosen. I would still stay with Matthew. I felt so proud of my wilted self. If only I had known what a prison sentence life with Matthew would turn out to be. To be so inept, I had thought impossible. Matthew's life had no excitement and left no room for enjoyment. Therefore, I was left alone, starving, on that curse of a windowsill. As usual, Matthew came back to me when there was no sun left. He flopped onto his bed, shoes and suit still donned, and soon commenced a light snoring. Oh, Matthew's snoring. It kept me grounded throughout the night. It kept me from losing myself to the darkness. When his snoring ceased (about 20 minutes before his alarm would wake the world), I jolted into thought once again. I patiently waited for Matthew to stir, then began my ritual of hope once again. When he passed by, I would crumple down and attempt to look as dry as possible, my brown leaves fluttering with every gust that came through the window. When Matthew had his pill, I locked my entire being on each drop of water to be running free in his body. And when he left, I relived the day he picked me. Something felt different today. Something felt... final. I didn't quite know what, but the world was wrong today. The sun was shining; Matthew's routine hadn't changed. That pretty little sunflower down at the mailbox still stared lovestruck at the sun, happy and healthy and bright. Alive. It was then that I realized. I was dying. And Matthew wasn't coming back to water me. He never had. How special a talent to kill off a cactus by dehydration. How unique to be able to have someone so dependent on you, yet show them no love, give them nothing to live on. How rare to let someone love you so dearly, need you so badly, when you never intended to reciprocate in the first place. Had I been given just one drop of water during my time with Matthew, I would still be just fine. He had chosen me, but he had never planned to make me feel special. He had never planned to care. And he didn't. This was all that was on my mind as the petals to my delicate scarlet flowers slowly drifted away from me. My thorns lost their edge. My skin crumbled to dust, one molecule at a time. I became worthless. Looking back on it, I suppose I had been worthless all along. That is why Matthew wanted me. Now I was gone. I could only dream that he noticed my absence.