It was the rainy season again. I stood under the eaves and looked at the apple trees in the yard that were soaked by the rain. Suddenly I remembered the summer when I planted it, the person who vowed that she would be able to eat apples next year. She rolled up her trousers, her hair stuck to the side of her face with sweat. I held two glasses of apple juice with ice cubes, my heart was beating like a drum, and even the crisp sound of the ice cubes in the cup was assimilated into the pounding of my heartbeat.
But next year, the apple tree will remain the same, with no fruit and almost no growth. It will only bloom a few pale flowers in vain, and then leave lonely in autumn and winter.
I was the only one left in the room, and I remembered the day she left. The suitcase made an unignorable sound on the floor, but I turned my back to the door and pretended to be asleep, giving us both the last bit of dignity.
Later, I recalled that dreams when we were young were like apple blossoms. She or I had also imagined what kind of fruit it would bear. It didn't need to be full of fruits and covered the branches, but there should be at least a few. But then we realized that either I or she had to face the fact that we would be separated openly and frankly, even if it hurts our hearts.
First person story
Updated five to six days a week, everyone is welcome to comment and follow
Concept: We all think that stories must have an ending, just like the apple tree at the door of our house. But when I get to the end and look back, I am willing to go through all the experiences with you, even if they are sour, even if there is no result, even if I can only live by remembering them for the rest of my life.