My flatmate's houseplant died. And he has a very specific explanation for this, one he's fully committed to: it wasn't neglect, it wasn't a missed watering schedule, it was "overwatering out of love." As if he cared for it so intensely that the sheer volume of his affection drowned it.
The plant, for its part, disagreed. Silently. From beyond the grave. By being visibly, undeniably, browned-and-shriveled dead. The evidence is not on his side, but he tells the story with the conviction of a man who did nothing wrong.
You'd think this would prompt some reflection. Some adjustment to the approach. It did not.
He has since bought a replacement plant. And he's applying the exact same care philosophy to it. The same "love," the same watering habits, the same doomed intensity. The new plant is currently alive, but it's living on borrowed time, receiving the identical treatment that killed its predecessor. I've said nothing. I'm simply watching a rerun with a known ending, waiting to hear "overwatering out of love" for the second time.