The sign perched above the table read like a quiet dare: Don’t cheat. Pick a candy apple to see how honest you really are. Mara stopped—not because she believed a treat could expose her character, but because honesty had always felt like something to handle with care. The display itself was unremarkable: glossy apples on wooden sticks, people laughing as they chose without hesitation. Still, something about the moment asked her to slow down].

She surveyed the options as if they carried meaning. Caramel felt safe and familiar. The classic red apple was dependable, almost expected. Cookies and cream leaned indulgent, birthday cake overly cheerful. None of them felt wrong, exactly—just easy. Her attention shifted to the outliers instead: chili, shining boldly; pistachio, rough and textured; and lemon, bright and unapologetic. These weren’t flavors designed to please everyone. They stood apart, unconcerned with approval.

After a moment, she reached for the lemon apple. The first bite caught her off guard—sharp, clean, bracing. It didn’t soften itself or pretend to be sweet. The taste sparked a familiar thought: how often she’d smoothed over her opinions, quieted her instincts, or stretched past her own limits to keep things comfortable. The lemon didn’t allow that kind of compromise.

She smiled as she walked away, the sign no longer feeling like a test. The choice hadn’t uncovered some hidden truth, but it offered clarity. Honesty, she realized, isn’t performative or dramatic. Sometimes it’s as simple as choosing what feels right—even when it’s not the most popular option on the table.