I peeled my own orange today

I never liked an orange until you peeled it for me.

The first time we met, you invited me to your house.

“Let’s go to my place, I’ll peel an orange for you”

I agreed, carried by the currents of love, though you didn’t know that oranges topped my list of hated fruits. You revealed one of your love languages.

I remember how deftly you peeled it, separating it into halves, offering me the sweetest part. Oh, I fell in love again and again, my mind a symphony of joy.

Since that day, oranges became a staple in my apartment, a symbol of you. Their vibrant color reminding me of your gentle touch and the way you made the ordinary feel extraordinary.

I told my mom I ate oranges, surprising her, for she knew I’d rather go hungry that eat one. She didn’t know understand how love can transform even the most dislike things into something cherished.

But feelings faded, and we were torn apart, like an orange without its skin, left to rot. Our bond, once so strong, frayed, and disintegrated, leaving us as strangers with shared memories.

Yet, I kept my oranges-two boxes, safe and sound in my cupboard, a silent testament to what we had.

They were there, waiting, just in case you’d return and we could share that sweetness once more.

But today, I peeled my own orange. I did it neatly, without a drop of juice on my hands, just as you had shown me.

Oranges are now mine, and they taste just as sweet.

Each bite is a tribute to my journey, a reminder that I can peel my own oranges, that I can create my own sweetness.