Avoid Eye Contact

June 3, 2026

I bought one of those mail-order greenhouses—you know, the kind that arrives flatpacked like IKEA furniture? See, it was the height of the pandemic and I had just joined a gardening club. Now I didn’t know the first thing about gardening—my few heirloom tomato planters in the backyard had only ever produced disappointment—but I did know a thing or two about FOMO. When my friends started posting their starters on social media I knew I had to catch up, and wouldn’t you know it—Ali Express, that giant Chinese e-commerce site, had a sale on greenhouses.

I figured, what was the worst that could happen? Well, a lot. I could’ve opened a box of shattered glass and twisted metal. Or maybe the photos had been shopped and the finished product was only a foot tall?

No. The worst that happened was that the shipment was delayed. For a whole month!

While my greenhouse was floating somewhere in the Great Pacific Garbage Patch, my gardening club swapped pictures of sprouts and flowers and vegetables—and I grew more and more jealous.

When it finally arrived, I eagerly cracked open the large wooden crate. Inside, atop the stacks of glass panes and metal brackets, sat a tiny gift box. There was a strange note in broken English that read, “Sorry for the late! Enjoy this gift of warmth and cozy! AVOID EYE CONTACT”

I pulled my face mask tighter and set the gift box aside.

The rest of the greenhouse went up after some struggle. Soon I had a shack I could crouch in and some seeds planted in some plastic green pots. I was going to show my friends what a real gardener could do.

Now, about that gift of warmth and cozy … Inside the tiny gift box was a glass jar filled with some sand and a shiny rock or two. I say glass jar, but it didn’t have a lid—it was more of a bulb that had been fuzed shut. It wasn’t really warm or cozy, but the jar was kind of cute, so I glued some googly eyes to it, left it on a shelf to keep my seedlings company, and went inside to watch Netflix for a week or two.

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When I eventually returned to my greenhouse I fully expected to find that everything had died and rotted. Instead I stepped into an oasis. The glass was streaked with condensation and there were tiny green sprouts poking up everywhere. While the rest of the club had been arguing about fertilizers and ratios, my little shack had grown into a sanctuary of healing and rejuvenation—and all because of me!

I futzed with my babies, took some selfies, and posted them online. My gardening club was going to be so jealous.

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Three days later, when I climbed back out of my Netflix cocoon, the greenhouse’s glass was so badly stained with green and brown that I could no longer see inside. The grass around the base had grown wild with weeds, blocking the door. When I finally yanked it open a wall of humidity blew over me, fogging my glasses and sending goosebumps down my arms. The oasis had overgrown into a sweltering jungle. Big bushy leaves pressed up against the glass while roots spilled out over the rims of their pots. Some of the stalks were almost as tall as the ceiling. I swear I heard monkeys hooting in the distance.

Curse my naturally-gifted green thumb!

And at the back on a shelf, perfectly framed by vines and leaves, was the warmth and cozy jar. Nothing had grown within a foot of the jar—in fact, it was surrounded by dead and wilting vegetation. Of course! That jar was the only thing holding back the flood of invasive species. I knew what I had to do. I ordered a dozen more gift jars—same day delivery, this time—then hurried inside to brag online.

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I awoke in the middle of the night several days later to the sounds of something rummaging through my greenhouse. I could see silhouettes inside: someone moving around, knocking things around and trying to steal my plants! I put on my housecoat, grabbed my spatula, and stormed into the backyard. I reached for the door and yelled, “Just what do you think you’re doing?!”

The greenhouse exploded.

I was thrown back, landing in a heap. I shook my head and stared in shock. A huge mass of plants had stuffed the greenhouse so full that it had burst open from the inside. Flowers and vines and leaves and thorns tangled and pulsed, spreading out from the ruins into the yard. The monstrosity was illuminated by a dozen glowing green jars, sprinkled throughout like it was some sort of corrupted Christmas tree.

And in the middle of it all, staring back at me through a tangle of thorns and vines, were a lopsided pair of googly eyes.

I wiped the dew from my face, snarled, and launched myself at the mass. I hacked and stomped, pulling apart tangles while smashing every jar I could reach. Vines whipped around my ankles and tried to pull me under. Something thick and round slapped me in the face—a zucchini, I later discovered.

Soon, covered in sweat and compost, I found myself face to face with the original warmth and cozy jar, throbbing like a heart. Screeching my war cry, I thrust my arm into the bramble and pulled the jar free. It was hot to the touch. I stumbled back, waved it over my head, and yelled, “Everyone chill, or I smash your weird little sun!”

The vegetation shuddered.

Steam boiled into the night sky.

My neighbors’ bedroom light flicked on, then off.

For an eternity, we stared each other down.

Then, with a slither, the warmth and cozy jar summoned a stalk in front of me and revealed a peace offering: a huge heirloom tomato.

The first I had ever managed to grow.

My gardening club was going to be so jealous.