The sign above the table felt like a dare rather than an invitation: Don’t cheat.

Pick a candy apple to see how brutally honest you really are. Mara paused in front of it, not because she believed apples could reveal truth, but because she had spent most of her life avoiding it. The table looked ordinary—wood worn smooth by time, a linen cloth carefully laid out—but the apples gleamed with exaggerated confidence.

Each one stood upright on its stick like it had something to say. Around her, the room hummed softly with other people making quick, careless choices, laughing as if honesty were a game. Mara stayed silent, hands clasped, knowing that whatever she chose would feel uncomfortably close to a confession.

Her eyes moved from apple to apple, each coated in a different promise. Caramel whispered comfort and nostalgia, the safety of choosing what everyone else liked. Classic shone red and unadorned, almost daring her to admit she wanted simplicity. Cookies and cream felt indulgent, while birthday cake radiated forced cheer, the kind that masks exhaustion.

She lingered longer on the stranger options—chili with its dangerous shine, lemon sharp and unapologetic, pistachio textured and unfamiliar. These apples didn’t try to please; they challenged. Mara realized the table wasn’t asking what she enjoyed eating, but what parts of herself she was willing to acknowledge: the sweet, the bitter, the complicated, the messy.
She finally reached for the lemon apple, its bright yellow surface catching the light