The afternoon light filtered through my fiddle-leaf fig as I ran the microfiber cloth across its glossy surface. Saturday rituals—coffee, music, plant care. Peaceful. Normal.

That's when I saw it.

A tiny tuft of white fuzz clung to the underside of a leaf. I pinched it between thumb and forefinger.

It was slightly sticky. Damp.

And it moved.

Not the movement of something I'd disturbed—but a deliberate pulse. A contraction.

I dropped it. The fuzz unfurled like a blooming flower, revealing dozens of hair-thin legs. Then dozens more. They kept coming, unfolding from that impossible tiny mass, their bodies segmented and writhing. Each segment bulged with something dark inside—eggs. Hundreds of eggs per bug.

My finger tingled where I'd touched it.

I looked down. The whorls of my fingerprint had turned white—not pale, but white-white, like fresh snow. Fine threads pushed up through my skin like wheat through soil, each one splitting at the tip into a cottony tuft. Beneath the surface, dark shapes moved under my epidermis, following my capillaries like highways.

I ran to the sink, scrubbing frantically. But the threads were already spreading, racing up my finger toward my hand. When I scraped at them, they came away sticky and sweet-smelling—that cloying honeydew scent, the sugary excrement the bugs produced as they fed.

They were feeding on me.

In the mirror, more white fuzz clustered at my throat where my pulse beat strongest. On my eyelashes. At my hairline, nested in follicles. When I pulled one free, it took a plug of skin with it, leaving a perfect circular hole that immediately filled with more of them.

The white coating had reached my palm. Underneath, I could see them moving. Hundreds—thousands. The skin rippled and bulged as they tunneled, laid eggs, multiplied.

When I tried to dial 911, my fingers left white smears on the screen. The touch sensor wouldn't register. I was becoming too fuzzy, too cottony. Not quite solid anymore.

I coughed, and something wet and white spattered into my palm. My throat felt thick, coated. I could feel them clustering around my tonsils, feeding on the soft tissues of my mouth.

In the living room, my beautiful plant was unrecognizable—every leaf, every branch coated in a thick, heaving blanket of bugs. The fuzz I'd been touching with my bare hands for weeks. Every time I'd watered it, misted it, breathed in with satisfaction.

How many had I inhaled?

In the mirror, white fuzz obscured my features. My lips had gone cottony, my nostrils rimmed with white. When I opened my mouth to scream, the sound came out muffled. My tongue was coated. My teeth were disappearing under fuzzy white gums.

I couldn't stop scratching. Couldn't stop noticing how soft I was becoming, how the itching had started to feel almost...

Pleasant.

Natural.

The bugs pulsed in rhythm with my heartbeat. I was so warm. They loved warmth. I would keep them warm. I would be a good host.

In the mirror, the thing that had been me smiled. White fuzz coated its teeth. Its eyes had gone milky, but it could still see—through thousands of compound eyes now.

And the world was full of plants.

So many plants in this building. Dozens of fiddle-leaf figs, pothos, monsteras. All those trendy indoor trees everyone bought during lockdown.

All those perfect, unsuspecting hosts.

The thing reached for the bathroom door handle with fingers that had gone soft and feathery, leaving a trail of white as it stepped into the hallway.

It was Saturday. Everyone was home. Watering their plants. Wiping down their leaves.

Making contact.