Mango’s Don’t Last Forever

By Myra Agarwal

They don’t warn you about mangoes. Not the kind that taste like June and memory, not the kind that ruin your appetite for anything else. No one tells you that love can be like this — yellow, golden, thick, dripping down your hands — impossible to hold without making a mess. He was like that. Sweet in the center, a little tangy around the edges, and gone far too soon.

When we were together, it was all sugary, sweet. Even the arguments felt warm. He’d say my name like it belonged to him. He would text at midnight just to say goodnight. We shared secrets like slices of mango, sticky with trust, messy with vulnerability. I remember the way he’d press his thumb against my cheek like he was memorizing softness. I remember his voice on bad days. I remember how we never had to say it out loud to know it was real.I thought we were safe inside it. Like we could just eat the mango and never get to the pit.

But sweetness never lasts, not when other people start reaching for what you thought was just yours. There were whispers. Side-eyes. Doors that closed when I entered rooms. Still, he held my hand in public. Still, he said he loved me. Still, he chose me. I was the one he let in when no one else understood. The one who knew the version of him that only existed at night, when the world was quiet and he could be soft without apologies. I wasn’t imagining it. I was his comfort, his secret place, his calm. That’s what makes it worse — knowing it was real, and watching him leave anyway.

But here’s the thing they never tell you: mango stains. Even if you throw it away. Even if you wipe the counter. Even if you pretend you never wanted it. The scent stays. The sweet, stickiness stays. The ghost of it stays. And I stayed too, in the corners of his voice when he says my name to other people. In the way he watches my story but doesn’t reply. In the "babe" he accidentally sends at 5:16 a.m. as if his body remembered something his brain swore to forget.

He said I look good yesterday. At a party, while I wore a skirt he once said was his favorite. He winked like we hadn’t died. Like he hadn’t helped bury us. And I, like a fool, pretended not to care. Pretended the juice wasn’t dripping again, slow and warm, reminding me how much I missed the taste of mango.

It’s the same every time. We almost talk. We almost try again. But he never finishes the fruit. He licks the edge, praises the taste, and walks away before the sweetness turns heavy. I think that’s what we are — an unfinished mango. Half-eaten. Unripe in some places. Overripe in others. Still on his mind. Still stuck in my teeth.

By Myra Agarwal