Never Plucked Apple in the Garden of Eden

The beauty she holds yet she does not realize. The spell she has over me that she will never recognize. Her smile that freezes my world—that makes me realize that the luckiest man on Earth would be the man that will capture her heart.

In this small space, in a ferris wheel carriage, has been the best moment of my life. It is ending soon but I will lavish the last ten seconds of this ride where she and I are alone—where I can pretend we’re a couple and not simply friends. Where I can pretend that I have captured her heart, and we feel the same instead of I at loss for the spell she has unknowingly put on me.

She peers over the small window, the orange light from outside highlighting the features I love the most: the twinkle on her eyes that I always love. She doesn’t seem to notice it but I do—every time she talks about something she loves, every time she sees something she loves, every time she talks about the person she loves. Her soft cheeks that she is always insecure of, that I yearn to touch and cup against my callused palms—she probably wouldn’t like it. 

The tips of her smile, how she always have a smile on her face that always brightens my day. The smile that fuels me to move, to start my day. Her smile fuels me to function. And her plump lips that often forms into a small ‘o’ when she watches something, when she listens, when she stares off at the distance. The plump lips that echoes her intelligence and determination. The lips she often nibbles when she’s nervous; the lips she often bruises when she’s anxious. The lips she paints in red, pale peach and the thing color I love the most: her natural pink. They are the lips that I dream of every day. The taste of it, the feel of it—Eve’s apple that I would never dare to pluck. 

Her flowing dark hair gently rests on her shoulder, some strands brushing her chin. It doesn’t seem to bother her but my hand itches to sweep it away from her face. I grip my seat instead to stop myself from doing anything embarrassing. The lack of light in the small carriage makes it seem like her hair is black but I know and see her chestnut hair as clear as day. Her hair smells like strawberries. I have never tasted strawberries but her hair smells like how strawberries would smell. I often mess her hair and I love the way it perfectly fits in between my fingers. I love how it slides between my fingers as though my hands was specifically made for hers—as though it is where it was supposed to be.

I love every part of her that I can see. I could stare at her for hours. I could talk about her for hours but I am only left with seconds of every day. Fleeting moments of her and I that only I notice. Fleeting moments that I will forever cherish. 

She looks at me, “Look! We’re near!” She exclaims before she pastes herself again on the window. 

My lips form into a smile that eventually turns into a sigh as I realize that she will never be mine.

Her eyes will never twinkle when she sees me. I wouldn’t be able to caress her cheeks. I wouldn’t be able to wipe away her tears. I wouldn’t be able to slide my fingers on her hair again. I will never be the person that would bring a smile to her face, that would light her up just as she does to me, that would fuel her everyday just as she does to me. I will never be the person that she will confide with her deepest secrets, with her joys, with her pride, with her failures and regrets. I will never be the person who would taste the apple and plant it again and let it grow. 

I will never be her joy, her pride, her dream, her love. 

But I will be the person who will cheer for her. Who would always be at her side, watching her grow and follow her dreams. Who would watch her fall and try to catch her when no one is there. Who would watch her run and succeed. I would be the person who will stay no matter what—no matter how hard it is, no matter how painful.

I sometimes ask myself why would I do such a thing for a person. Out of seven billion people in this world, why would I dedicate myself to one person? Why would I run towards a dream so far from reach?

Because it’s her. Because no one is like her among the seven billion people in this world. I need no other reason for the dream is her—she is my dream, no matter how far.

The ferris wheel halts. The door opens and the momentary bliss is done. She jumps out of the carriage. I follow behind her. She runs towards the group that had been waiting for us. It seems we were the only one left. She jumps on his arms. Their smile to each other is enough to zap me out of life but I walk towards them with a smile and chat with our other friends.

In my periphery I see them embraced in each other’s arms yet I continue to smile.

I bear no hate on them. I am happy for them. I am happy for her that she has found happiness and love—even though it’s not from me or with me.

Perhaps love is when you learn to let go of the person you love. To accept that you are not the person she cherishes the most—wants the most. Perhaps love is when you become happy to your love’s happiness even though it is not you. 

I love her. I will always will. I will always choose her in every life. And, perhaps, in one of those lives I will be able to reach my dream.