I picked up one of the chocolates Rachel had given me and bit into it. It was rich and sweet, with a faint bitterness that melted away on my tongue. Then I reached for Cecilia's box, then Seraphina's, then Rose's. Each had its own flavor, its own personality. Rachel's was handmade, a little imperfect but undeniably warm and comforting. Cecilia's was elaborate and expensive, sharp and bold. Seraphina's was cool, minty, and refreshingly straightforward. Rose's was sweet, playful, and just a little surprising.
I set the boxes down, staring at them. Each one was so distinct, so real.
'I see now,' I thought. For the first time, I truly saw.
Even though I did care for them—each of them, in their own way—I had never really seen them. To me, they were roles, characters playing their part in a story I thought I already knew. I had boxed them in, reduced them to archetypes in the grand narrative of a novel.
