The note came crumpled and short: “I’m sorry, but I can’t be your friend anymore.” No explanation. No warning. Just a neatly folded end to six years of laughter and long Shabbat walks home.
Maya sat on the cracked stone step behind her apartment, autumn winds sneaking up beneath her coat. She tried to remember how it felt to belong, but the memory slipped through her fingers like sand.
She clutched the note until it tore. Somehow, the small rip felt more honest than the words written on the page.
For days, she drifted. At work, smiles felt heavier than ever. At home, silence wove itself through her rooms like a second skin. She second-guessed every conversation, every memory, wondering which version of herself was so easy to leave behind.
On Friday afternoon, with sunset pressing impatiently at the horizon, she wandered into the small flower shop near the shuk. Buckets of tired chrysanthemums leaned against each other by the door. She wasn’t sure why she stepped inside.
“Something for Shabbat?” called the shopkeeper, his hands busy arranging late blooms into clumsy bundles.
Maya nodded, though she hadn't intended to buy anything. At the back, buried beneath bouquets meant for grand tables and smiling guests, she saw a single branch of olive leaves, gray-green and humble. It was almost invisible among the bright flowers, but it drew her like a thread.
She picked it up. The leaves looked bruised at the edges, yet they smelled sharp, like rain and soil.
“That one’s free,” the shopkeeper said, chuckling. "No one else wants it."
The words struck her heart with strange tenderness. She cradled the branch as though it were something precious.
Carrying it home, she thought about her great-grandmother—how she'd once told Maya that the olive tree survives endless scorching summers, endless winters, rooted even when everything around it falters.
“You are like that tree," she'd said. "Am Yisrael is like that tree."
Maya placed the little branch in a glass jar by the window. Outside, the sun bowed low, and the first stars began to prick holes in the sky. She lit the Shabbat candles, wrestling old, familiar prayers over her lips.
As she whispered the last blessing, tears blurred her vision—not frantic, not broken, just the quiet kind that water something unseen.
She realized then: maybe rejection peels something away, but it cannot touch what G-d has named her.
A verse she hadn't thought of in years rose, warm and sudden: "They looked to Him and were radiant; their faces are never ashamed."
Maya sat by the window until the flames blurred to gold puddles. She was still Maya—full of light, full of becoming, even if someone else could no longer see it.
And that was enough.
The olive leaves trembled gently in the breeze sneaking through the cracked window pane.
Somewhere inside her heart, a seed of wonder cracked open.
Not all things that look overlooked truly are.
Not every ending is a failure.
Some are G-d’s kindness, hidden in rough-cloaked blessings.
She smiled faintly, whispering into the candlelit room: "Blessed are You, Hashem, who has called me by name."
And all around her, the quiet seemed to say: You are Mine. You always were.
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh References:
The note came crumpled and short: “I’m sorry, but I can’t be your friend anymore.” No explanation. No warning. Just a neatly folded end to six years of laughter and long Shabbat walks home.
Maya sat on the cracked stone step behind her apartment, autumn winds sneaking up beneath her coat. She tried to remember how it felt to belong, but the memory slipped through her fingers like sand.
She clutched the note until it tore. Somehow, the small rip felt more honest than the words written on the page.
For days, she drifted. At work, smiles felt heavier than ever. At home, silence wove itself through her rooms like a second skin. She second-guessed every conversation, every memory, wondering which version of herself was so easy to leave behind.
On Friday afternoon, with sunset pressing impatiently at the horizon, she wandered into the small flower shop near the shuk. Buckets of tired chrysanthemums leaned against each other by the door. She wasn’t sure why she stepped inside.
“Something for Shabbat?” called the shopkeeper, his hands busy arranging late blooms into clumsy bundles.
Maya nodded, though she hadn't intended to buy anything. At the back, buried beneath bouquets meant for grand tables and smiling guests, she saw a single branch of olive leaves, gray-green and humble. It was almost invisible among the bright flowers, but it drew her like a thread.
She picked it up. The leaves looked bruised at the edges, yet they smelled sharp, like rain and soil.
“That one’s free,” the shopkeeper said, chuckling. "No one else wants it."
The words struck her heart with strange tenderness. She cradled the branch as though it were something precious.
Carrying it home, she thought about her great-grandmother—how she'd once told Maya that the olive tree survives endless scorching summers, endless winters, rooted even when everything around it falters.
“You are like that tree," she'd said. "Am Yisrael is like that tree."
Maya placed the little branch in a glass jar by the window. Outside, the sun bowed low, and the first stars began to prick holes in the sky. She lit the Shabbat candles, wrestling old, familiar prayers over her lips.
As she whispered the last blessing, tears blurred her vision—not frantic, not broken, just the quiet kind that water something unseen.
She realized then: maybe rejection peels something away, but it cannot touch what G-d has named her.
A verse she hadn't thought of in years rose, warm and sudden: "They looked to Him and were radiant; their faces are never ashamed."
Maya sat by the window until the flames blurred to gold puddles. She was still Maya—full of light, full of becoming, even if someone else could no longer see it.
And that was enough.
The olive leaves trembled gently in the breeze sneaking through the cracked window pane.
Somewhere inside her heart, a seed of wonder cracked open.
Not all things that look overlooked truly are.
Not every ending is a failure.
Some are G-d’s kindness, hidden in rough-cloaked blessings.
She smiled faintly, whispering into the candlelit room: "Blessed are You, Hashem, who has called me by name."
And all around her, the quiet seemed to say: You are Mine. You always were.
—
Supporting Torah and Tanakh References:
