Don't Die, my Fern.
I don't like ferns. not in the slightest. But you, fern, are the only other living thing in this 8 by 10 cell space. Unless, of course, you count the thousands of bacteria flourishing in the bucket in the corner (but something tells me they don't count).
Don't leave me, please - don't die. I have abandonment issues and your death would only exacerbate that. I've been all alone for a very long time. My parents died when I was small, and my brother Jeremy moved away to New York several years ago, and my cat couldn't stand my presence. He ran away to live with my neighbor. It hurt my pride - my cat would rather live with a flatulent, unhygienic elderly woman than me.
Oh well. Long story short, all I had was myself until I came to this cell. Now all I have is me and you.
Don't leave me, please. I'm still harboring the hope that they'll release me someday. If they ever do, I'll bring you with me, I promise. I'm sure you don't like it down here either. Dank and gloomy with suspicious stains everywhere. You don't belong here. You belong in some fashionable minimalist design house (the type you see in IKEA catalogs). You would be the perfect plant accent to white walls and birch furniture. I'll make it happen. I'll make you famous.
It's the best I can do. You've stood by me in all the hard times. When I lay down for one of my apathetic fits, I feel like you understand me, and you uncurl slightly to show me a new shade of green you've invented. That crisp, fresh tint invigorates me so much. I don't know how you do it (seeing as you're fed with brackish water and feeble sunlight) - but you grow so beautifully.
If you die, I will no longer have anyone to listen to my sorrows. I don't like people half as much as I like ferns. The guards never talk to me, anyways. Don't leave me, please. I know I haven't taken good care of you but I promise I'll try harder. I'll ask for some cleaner water next time.
Don't die, fern. You're all I have.