I never thought I'd be the type of person to fall in love with a fake flower, but here I am, completely smitten with this diminutive green rose that my sister bought from a pretentious art gallery. "It's ceramic," she said, as if that somehow justified everything. The thing about this flower – this perfectly crafted little liar – is that it pulls off the greatest con of all: it makes you forget it's artificial. It hangs on my living room wall like a tiny green performer in a one-rose show, catching the afternoon light in ways that real roses would envy, if they weren't too busy being actual plants. My boyfriend says it's "abstract wall art," which is the kind of phrase people use when they want to sound like they understand modern aesthetics. But I've caught him talking to it when he thinks I'm not around, probably because it's the only thing in our apartment that doesn't judge his choice of sweater vests. It's become our most reliable houseguest – never wilting, never demanding water, just quietly existing in its ceramic perfection.