A Realistic Love Story
I once encountered an apple.
A perfectly ripened apple.
At that time, I was still young, just in middle school, and my deskmate was a boy who would blush. Yes, even when we argued, he would blush—we had quite a few arguments, and each time, he was the first to apologize. I secretly thought he was quite gentlemanly. Later, the teacher rearranged our seats, and we were separated.
That afternoon, the sunlight was lovely as I rode my bike to school, thinking about distant things, and suddenly, I thought of him. He moved to the third group in the morning, and I felt an emptiness in my heart, like a room that hadn’t been cleaned for a long time. When I arrived in the classroom and saw my new deskmate, a boy I hadn’t spoken much with, my gaze inadvertently fell on him. He was chatting happily with his new deskmate.
When I sat down, I finally let out a sigh of relief—not for any particular reason, just because, from that angle, I couldn’t see him. As I reached into my desk to get a book, I felt something cool and pleasant—a single apple. There was a note attached to it, saying “For you,” along with a smiley face. The handwriting was familiar—it was from him.
I didn’t smile, but I felt as if a tree had grown in my heart, and the largest, reddest apple fell right into my hand—it was mine.
I didn’t eat it, nor did I remove the note. I carefully placed it in the inner pocket of my school bag and took it home. At home, I didn’t eat it either. I just placed it on my bookshelf, with the note facing outward. It was so red and smooth, like a poem by Browning. Looking at it, I seemed to read words on the apple, a heart just as red and smooth.
I don’t remember how I spent those days. I only remember that, because of the angle, I couldn’t see him from my seat. I could only catch a glimpse when passing books. He was still the same—blushing, solving math problems that some girls couldn’t, and smiling foolishly at the teacher. But our exclusive arguments were gone. In those brief glances, I first heard my own heartbeat.
Every day after school, I would talk to that apple. The apple might have gotten tired of the little girl’s trivialities and thoughts. However, the apple seemed to have a good temper, exuding a fragrance and an enticing shine, like a silver bowl holding tiny secrets. Gradually, every time I passed a fruit stand and saw apples, I would think of him, his bright smile, and his blushing face during arguments. Simple, just like an apple.
When the apple started to rot, I was at a loss. The rotten part began to ooze, and I knew it was apple cider. Smelling the scent of alcohol, I still didn’t throw it away.
When the apple completely decayed, I kept the note, although it had stains on it—a footprint left by the apple on the world. That day, I passed a fruit stand and bought another apple, attaching the note to it, just like before. However, I knew that the note was still the same, and I was still the same, but the apple was no longer the original apple.
I continued this habit until I graduated from middle school. When I took my graduation contact book to him, he paused for a moment but still wrote down his contact information. In the message section, he only wrote, “Bon voyage.”
At home, I looked at the apple and shed a tear.
I still remember the sound of that tear hitting the ground, even though I’m now a college student. I never called him, nor did I buy another apple for him, because I know the best way to deal with an apple is to eat it.
Short stories shared for free on our ” Sitestorys “. Thank you for reading!
