Fruit-Adjacent Matters

A mind of their own they have. How shameless. I only came out here to grab some fruit. Something quick, something easy- a peach, maybe, or whatever was closest. But somehow my feet carried me further than I meant to go, past the neat little rows of things I’m comfortable handling, all the way to the fig tree at the back. I don’t even like figs that much. Or at least that’s what I tell myself, the same way I tell myself I’m not thinking about all the things I’m supposed to be doing- which is laughable, considering the mental gymnastics I’ve been performing all morning.

But the breeze is so light and airy here, it threatens to whisk me away, far up into the clouds like a coward. The grass beneath me is cool and uneven, little blades poking at my skin, leaving faint grazes that sting in the softest, most grounding way. I lie here anyway, pressed into the earth, feeling the hum of the soil beneath my spine. Above me, the light plays along the branches- twinkling, twisting, catching on the curves of each fig as though the sun itself is trying to tempt me into choosing. Even the sunlight seems to be judging me.

The tree is older than my worries, older than my indecision. Its trunk is rough and warm, its bark split like the lines on a tired palm. The figs hang heavy, swollen with possibility. One sits riper and more pleasant‑looking than the others, its skin taut and glowing. Another is larger, almost comically so, as if it grew too fast for its own good. Another has already begun to split, opening itself to the creatures and insects that desire it, its sweetness leaking into the air like a confession. Meanwhile I’m leaking nothing but anxiety and questionable judgment.

Would it be selfish to take them all? To pluck them at once, to cram every one into my hands, swallow every possibility before it softens and collapses. But I have only one pair of hands- hands barely able to carry their own lines and worries. And whilst I’m frozen in this greedy wanting, I can already smell the sweetness turning. I can almost hear the quiet bruise of them rotting, one by one, because I can’t decide which deserves to be cherished first. A truly impressive talent: ruining fruit through hesitation alone.

Or maybe it’s because I keep sitting here and going back in time, thinking of which mistakes I made when picking my figs. There was the fig I grabbed too quickly, dazzled by its shine, only to find it grainy and hollow at the centre. And the one I left hanging too long, convincing myself I wasn’t ready, until it sagged and burst under its own weight. And the one I dropped- not by accident, but out of fear- watching it split open on the ground before I ever tasted what it could have been. A highlight reel of my finest choices.

But I cannot just sit here and pick at my wounds every time they’ve healed. That would be counterintuitive, wouldn’t it. The tree keeps growing. The figs keep ripening. And I am still here, choosing which one to pick. Daft. Absolutely daft.

That’s the problem. The choosing. Hovering, balancing, waiting for the right time like I’m auditioning for the role of “Person Who Has Their Life Together.” Waiting for the perfect moment, the perfect fig, the perfect mood to pick them. Maybe I’ve been treating this like an exam when it’s really just… fruit. Maybe the figs don’t need me to be decisive or ready. Maybe they don’t need anything from me at all. A refreshing change, honestly.

Consent and all.

I let my hand fall back to the grass. A breeze nudges a branch above me, gentle but insistent, and a fig wobbles, loosens, and then drops- landing in my palm with a soft, almost apologetic thud. It’s not the prettiest one. A little underripe on one side, a little bruised on the other. But it chose my palm to land on. It came to me without ceremony or pressure, which is more than I can say for most things in my life.

Maybe that’s enough.

I sit up, brushing grass from my arm. And suddenly- as if someone’s turned up the saturation- my surroundings come into focus. The lake glints in the distance, a sheet of silver I somehow never noticed before. Honestly, how does one miss an entire lake? It’s not small. It’s not subtle. It’s just been… there. Existing. Meanwhile I’ve been lying under a tree having a dramatic monologue with fruit.

The water ripples in slow, lazy rings, like it’s stretching after a long nap. A dragonfly skims across the surface, wings catching the light in tiny flashes. The air smells different here- cleaner, cooler, touched by something floral I can’t name. The breeze carries the faint rustle of reeds, the soft plink of water against stones, the distant hum of insects warming their wings. Even the shadows seem softer, like the whole world has been waiting for me to finally look up.

And then I see him.

The guy who tends the vegetable patch near the lake. I’ve seen him around- or apparently I haven’t, considering I’ve been too busy spiralling about figs to notice a whole human being. He’s kneeling in the soil, sleeves rolled up, forearms tanned and dusted with earth. His hair is dark and messy in a way that looks accidental but probably isn’t. There’s a smudge of dirt on his cheek- a soft, earthy streak that somehow makes him look more real, more grounded, more here. Meanwhile I look like I’ve been wrestling with my own thoughts and losing.

He glances up and catches me staring. Fantastic. I immediately pretend to examine the fig like it’s a rare gemstone.

I stand, brushing off my clothes, and start walking toward the lake- not toward him, obviously. Just… in that general direction. The grass softens under my feet. The air shifts cooler. A bird calls from somewhere above, sharp and bright. With each step, the world sharpens- colours deepen, sounds separate, the breeze feels less like an escape route and more like a companion.

He straightens up as I approach, dusting soil from his hands. “You’re the fig girl,” he says, as if this is a normal greeting.

“I- what? No. I’m not-” I look at the fig in my hand. “Okay, maybe today.”

He grins, a small, lopsided thing that shouldn’t be as charming as it is. “You’ve been staring at that tree for, what, twenty minutes?”

“Thirty,” I correct before I can stop myself. “But I was thinking. Deeply.”

“About figs?”

“About… fruit‑adjacent matters.”

He laughs- a warm, low sound that ripples across the clearing. “Right. Very serious business.”

I roll my eyes, but it’s half‑hearted. “Some of us have complex relationships with produce.”

He nods solemnly. “I respect that.”

We stand there for a moment- him with his tomatoes, me with my existentially charged fig- and the silence feels oddly comfortable. The breeze shifts. The lake glimmers. A bird swoops low over the water.

He tilts his head toward the fig. “So… are you going to eat it?”

I look down at it. Imperfect. Warm. Real. My thumb presses lightly into the soft spot near the bruise.

“I was thinking of saving it,” I say. “For the right moment.”

He snorts. “It’s a fig, not a wedding proposal.”

“I know that,” I say, even though I absolutely behave like it isn’t. “I just… what if there aren’t any more good ones? What if this is the last decent fig of the season and I waste it on a mediocre moment?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re worried about fig scarcity.”

“I’m worried about fig quality control,” I correct, which sounds even worse out loud. “And you should probably take better care of them. They’re splitting and bruising and falling on unsuspecting passers‑by. It’s chaos.”

“You’re giving me notes on fig management.”

“Well someone should,” I mutter. “They’re practically crying out for supervision.”

He steps closer, just enough that I can see the faint flecks of soil on his arms. “Figs don’t need supervision,” he says, voice warm and annoyingly wise. “They ripen when they’re ready. They fall when they’re done holding on. That’s the whole point.”

I blink at him. “Are you giving me fruit philosophy?”

“Only because you seem like the type who needs it,” he says, smiling. “You can’t force a fig to be perfect. You can’t stop it from bruising. You can’t save it for the exact right moment. You just take it when it comes. And if it’s not perfect…” He shrugs. “There’ll be more.”

Of course he’s the kind of person who casually drops botanical wisdom like he’s auditioning for the role of Charming Garden Sage.

“And besides,” he adds, turning back to his tomatoes, “if you’re that worried about the figs, you could always help me look after them.”

My brain short‑circuits. “Help you?”

He glances over his shoulder, grin crooked. “Sure. You seem… invested.”

“I’m not invested,” I lie, holding two figs like incriminating evidence. “I’m just- observant.”

Before the Figs Bruise

“Mm‑hmm. Well, observant girl, eat the fig before it starts giving you anxiety.”

I open my mouth to protest, but the universe chooses that moment to drop another fig behind me with a soft, decisive thud.

He doesn’t even turn around. “See? Plenty more.”

I roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t roll into the lake. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he says, humming again, “you’re still standing here.”

Unfortunately, he has a point.

I pick up the newly fallen fig- this one even more lopsided than the first- and hold both in my hands. Two figs. Two tiny, ridiculous reminders that maybe I’ve been so wrapped up in my own head I haven’t noticed… well, anything. Not the lake. Not the dragonflies. Not the breeze. Not the guy who apparently has been close enough to shout fruit commentary at me this whole time.

I laugh- quietly, to myself, in case the weird boy hears me- and lift the first fig to my lips.

Maybe he’s right.

Maybe there will be more.

Maybe that’s all I need to know.