I bring another mango to school.
Not because I'm trying to impress her. Not to make her like me. I bring it because I want her to have something sweet.
She's already in her usual spot under the stairwell, knees pulled to her chest, sketchbook resting like armor in her lap. Her hair, long and thick with 4A curls, spills around her face like a shield of dark silk. She doesn't notice me at first. Or maybe she does, and she's just pretending not to.
Either way, I sit beside her, careful not to crowd her space, and pull the mango from my bag - bright golden skin, softened just right. I set it gently between us, wrapped in a napkin.
She glances at it, then at me. Her brown eyes are cautious, always.
"No pressure," I say. "It's just a mango."
Her pencil slows. Her fingers tense slightly. I can almost see her calculating the risk of something as simple as fruit.
"I used to eat these in the summers," I continue, voice low. "My grandfather had a grove behind his house in Connecticut. We'd eat them outside so the juice wouldn't mess up the furniture. My mom hated sticky floors. But my dad used to laugh and say the best things in life were messy."
Her eyes linger on the mango. Still unsure.
I don't push. Just lean back against the wall and pretend I'm not watching her decide.
Then she sets the sketchbook aside.
Her fingers - careful, elegant - peel back the napkin. She brings the mango to her mouth and bites. It's a small bite. A testing one.
For a second, nothing.
Then her lips part, and a breath leaves her like she's never tasted anything like it.
Her eyes close.
She chews slowly, reverently.
"What?" I ask, quieter than before.
She swallows and opens her eyes.
"It tastes like light," she says.
And God help me, I believe her.
In that moment, she's not the girl with walls and whispers. She's not guarded or vanished. She's full of something glowing - like this bite of mango has shifted the axis of her whole day.
She takes another bite. Bigger this time.
Her curls sway slightly with the motion, catching light in places. Her skin, deep brown and smooth, shines a little in the sun filtering through the narrow stairwell window. And I'm sitting here, some rich white kid in loafers and generational expectation, watching her rediscover sweetness like it's a miracle.
She looks up, catches me watching.
"Don't say anything cheesy," she warns.
I raise my hands. "Wouldn't dream of it."
But I would.
If I could, I'd write sonnets about this. About mango juice at the corner of her mouth. About how light looks when she lets it in. About a girl whose silence hums louder than most people's words.
She finishes the mango, licking her thumb with a soft hum that makes my throat tighten.
"Thank you," she says, wiping her hands.
"For the mango?"
She nods. But i think it's more than that.
I lean back beside her. We sit there in silence, listening to the world move on without us.
And I swear, tomorrow, I'll bring two.