What Remains After the Bite

Bite by bite, the apple dwindled, its crisp flesh vanishing like time unspooling. She sat, adrift— mind tethered to the wreckage of a decade-long love, undone by doubt, dissolved by silence. She bit again. The ache of solitude, foreign yet familiar, settled beside her like an unwelcome guest. Two children clung to her history, but no arms held her future. She bore the weight of the world’s unspoken expectations, sinking gently into a quiet sea of dread. Tears carved soft rivers down her cheeks. “It’s come to this,” she whispered, “The truth I can no longer outrun— I am now the mother, and I am now alone.” Her final bite broke the silence. Reality nudged her gently— the clock's hands had crept forward, unnoticed. “My, that apple stole more than just time,” she said, half amused, half undone. And then the old saying— “An apple a day keeps the doctor away.” She gave a wry smile, picked up another apple, and resumed her pilgrimage inward.