Though ordinary in hue, the pear of despair sat heavy in the hand, wounded by expectation. Though it guaranteed sweetness, it carried the flavor of waiting, the sort that overripens too long on the tree limb. One mouthful broke a silence, not anger, just the ache of what should have been nutritious. Juice slithered like regrets sticky with regret, apologies coming late.
This pear was never poison. Hope kept beyond its time was impatience misinterpreted. Then you realize despair is not loud. When hunger disregards timing, it is edible, familiar, and preferred. The lesson is basic and clear: choose earlier, trust ripeness, and leave before sweetness goes inward. Carry the memory softly so today's uncertainty or fear of your hands when choosing again later does not inherit tomorrow's fruit.