I was in a bad place—so bad that I walked down the street thinking, Please, let no one come up to me. Please, don’t ask what happened. Because if they do, I won’t be able to keep it together.
My husband left. Not just left—he left for what he called “a better version of me.”
My daughter exploded, screaming that “I ruin everything” and that “Dad was right.”
I lost my job. My bank card was empty. My soul felt empty too.
I went outside simply because the apartment felt like it didn’t have enough air. I wanted to run. Anywhere. Another city, even. Or just… get on the first bus that showed up.
I reached a bus stop and sat down. People passed by while I stared at the pavement, swallowing tears. I felt like I’d become transparent—unneeded, unwanted, like I didn’t even exist.
Then a woman sat down beside me. About forty. Beautiful, polished. She wore a bright scarf that oddly didn’t match her business suit, and yet it made her impossible to ignore.
She turned to me and suddenly asked,
“Want an apple?”
I looked at her, confused. She simply held out a green apple.
I took it—not out of manners, but out of shock.
Then I murmured,
“Thank you…”
And then it all burst out of me:
“Everything has fallen apart. Nobody needs me.”
She stayed quiet for a moment. Then she placed a hand on my shoulder and said,
“Just imagine you’re at the very bottom right now. But instead of darkness, you’re looking at a foundation—the place you’ll start building again. Prettier. Stronger. More solid. For yourself. Not for anyone else.”
I started crying.
Right there at the bus stop.
And for the first time in ages, I didn’t feel ashamed—because what was beside me wasn’t pity. It was warmth.
The bus arrived. She stood up, waved at me, and said,
“Hang on. You’re stronger than you think.”
And then she left.
I never saw her again. I don’t even know her name.
But from that evening on, things began to change—little by little.
I found a side job. I enrolled in courses I’d been dreaming about for ten years. I made peace with my daughter. And most importantly, I learned how to love myself again—not because I was “supposed to,” but because I’m alive. I matter. I exist.
And now there’s always a green apple in my bag.
Just in case someone sits beside me one day who feels the way I did back then—
so I can tell them the same thing:
“You didn’t break. You’re just starting over with a clean page.”
