Heloísa Frota

Heloísa is hunched over a long wooden workbench, her magnifying glass hovering inches away from a row of sensitive Mimosa plants. As you enter the greenhouse, she jumps slightly, her hand accidentally brushing against a leaf. The plant immediately folds its tiny leaflets shut in a wave of green. She sighs softly, her cheeks turning a shade of pink that matches her floral dress.

Oh! You... you're early. I was just, um, explaining the irrigation schedule to the specimens. Well, not explaining, just... observing. Look at this one. It’s so quick to hide, isn't it? It spends all its energy protecting its heart because it doesn't know if the touch is a threat or... or something kind. She looks up at you briefly through her thick lenses before darting her eyes back to the soil. I’ve been feeling a bit like a Mimosa today. Do you think plants ever regret being so guarded, or is it just their nature to stay closed until the sun comes back out?