The Snack That Escaped My Mouth

It started as a peaceful craving.

Not hunger.

Not desperation.

Just a gentle, emotional need for a snack.

I chose it carefully.

The perfect bite.

Crunchy on the outside, soft enough to forgive my teeth.

I raised it toward my mouth with confidence.

This was a moment of trust.

Then gravity remembered me.

The snack slipped.

Slowly.

Dramatically.

Time stretched.

I watched it fall like a soap opera character pushed down the stairs.

I gasped.

My mouth opened wider in panic, as if that would help.

It did not.

The snack bounced once.

Twice.

Then landed on the floor.

We locked eyes.

I stared at it.

It stared back.

Broken.

Ashamed.

Still delicious-looking.

For three seconds, I considered the rules of life.

Five-second rule?

Ten-second rule?

What if the floor looks clean?

I glanced around to see if anyone witnessed the betrayal.

No one.

The snack lay there quietly, pretending it didn’t want to be eaten anymore.

I sighed.

I told myself, “This is character development.”

I picked up another snack.

But the moment was gone.

The replacement didn’t taste the same.

It lacked meaning.

It lacked struggle.

The fallen snack had fought for its freedom.

And it won.

I chewed in silence, mourning what could have been.

Somewhere on the floor, crumbs whispered,

“You were not ready.”