MY FATE IS IN MY HANDS

I have to be strong

PHOEBE

The afternoon sun had begun its slow descent when I noticed the shadows stretching longer across the road. The heat was still heavy, pressing down on my shoulders, but the morning rush had thinned out. Fewer cars passed now, and most people hurried by without even glancing at my tray of oranges.

I sat quietly beneath the neem tree, my back straight despite the deep ache running through it. I counted the remaining oranges with my eyes, they are still too many.

Not enough had been sold.

I adjusted one absentmindedly, my fingers sticky from juice leaking through a small bruise in its skin. Dust clung stubbornly to everything, including the fruit, my clothes, even to my thoughts.

I was just about to call out again when a familiar car slowed near the roadside.

It was a silver sedan, clean and polished. the kind that rarely stopped at stalls like mine. I lifted my eyes out of habit.

Then my breath caught.

Irish was sitting in the back seat.

Her school uniform was still neat, her bag resting beside her. She looked relaxed, leaning slightly forward as she laughed at something. In the front passenger seat sat Harry.

My heart sank.

Harry’s hand rested casually on the window frame, his wristwatch catching the fading sunlight. He looked comfortable, confident like someone whose life was unfolding exactly the way it was meant to. He didn’t look toward the roadside at all.

The car slowed briefly, trapped behind a bus.

For one fragile second, I hoped he would turn to look at me. like, he is my boyfriend for crying out loud.

I straightened without realizing it, my hands hovering near my tray. I imagined Irish glancing out and recognizing me. I imagined her asking the driver to stop. I imagined Harry turning, smiling, stepping out to ask if I had eaten, if the day had been hard.

The car moved forward.

It passed my stall without stopping.

Irish’s gaze flicked toward the roadside for the briefest moment. It slid over me as if I were just another vendor. If she recognized her sister, she gave no sign. She turned back to Harry, still smiling.

The car disappeared into traffic.

I remained frozen.

The noise of the road rushed back into my ears all at once, horns blaring, engines roaring, traders calling out. My chest tightened, as if someone had tied a knot around my lungs.

I quickly lowered my head, afraid my face would betray me.

Harry hadn’t looked at me. Not once.

I swallowed hard and forced my shoulders to relax. People were still passing. Someone stopped to ask for the price of oranges. I answered calmly. I even smiled when I handed over a small bag.

Inside me, something heavy settled.

I told myself it didn’t matter. I told myself Irish was tired from school, that Harry was busy, that stopping along a crowded road would have been inconvenient. I repeated these thoughts like prayers, hoping one of them would feel true.

But they didn’t.

As the sun dipped lower, the sky shifted from harsh blue to soft gold. The road cooled slightly. I watched the shadows stretch and blur, watched the day slowly give up.

After a few more oranges are sold,

exhaustion began to settle deep into my bones. My feet throbbed. My shoulders felt stiff from sitting upright for so long. Still, I remained where I was, calling out softly when anyone pass by.

“Sweet orange.”

When evening settled fully, streetlights flickered on one by one. The road glowed dimly, and the air grew cooler. The other vendors began packing up, their voices louder now, relieved laughter rising as their day ended.

I waited until the flow of people thinned even more.

Then I counted my money carefully, folding the notes and tying them into the corner of my scarf. It wasn’t much, it never was.

I lowered the tray from the stone and began packing the remaining oranges into a large nylon bag. I did it slowly, carefully, as if rushing would somehow make the day worse than it already felt. Each orange dropped into the bag with a dull thud.

As I worked, my thoughts drifted back to the car.

I remembered how Harry used to look at me when we first started dating, how he used to wait for me after class, how he once said he admired my strength. I wondered when that admiration had turned into indifference or if it had ever truly existed at all.

I zipped the bag closed and lifted it onto my shoulder.

The weight pulled at me, but I straightened anyway.

The road was quieter now. Shops were closing. Above me, the neem tree whispered softly as the evening breeze passed through its leaves. I took one last look at the spot I had occupied all day.

No one would remember I had been there.

I began the walk home.

The path was familiar, lit only by streetlights and the occasional flash of motorcycle headlights. My steps were steady and my face was unusually calm. Anyone watching would think I was fine

My chest ached with a quiet, persistent sadness. but not sharp enough to make me cry, and not loud enough to make me scream.

Still, I kept walking.

I told myself I had survived another day. I told myself strength meant endurance, that silence was safer than hope. I told myself tomorrow would come whether I was ready or not.

As the house came into view, dark against the night sky, I adjusted the bag on my shoulder and lifted my chin.

I would not break, not here and not yet.

And with that fragile thought holding me together, I stepped forward, carrying the weight of the day home with me.