Love in the Shape of a Candy Bar

It was a nothing moment, the kind that gets lost in the murk of a day, a scene in the background of a life that isn’t supposed to demand attention. And yet, it stays with me.

My little brother had a check-up, and while my mother spoke to the doctor, I took him outside. Jollibee was the first stop, but they had no kiddie meals, so we walked across the street to a convenience store. It was his first time inside one. He walked the aisles like they were glowing tunnels to a softer, safer world. The bright lights hummed, the refrigerators sighed, and the rows of candy sat in wait, patient, perfect. He picked up a Snickers, turned it in his hands, then put it back. Brows furrowed, deciding, un-deciding. Like me, most days.

He found his way to the counter and plucked the Snickers up again, this time with finality. He handed it to me and tilted his head in that trusting, weightless way children do.

I reached for my wallet. Empty space. The sick drop in my stomach. I had left it at home. I told him we’d go back, ask mom for money. He didn’t seem to mind. But we never did. The day collapsed into itself, swallowing the moment whole, replacing it with new ones: car rides, voices, the dull hum of routine.

No Snickers.

And that should’ve been fine. He didn’t cry. He didn’t even seem to care. But I did. It sat heavy on me, the way disappointment often does, pressing itself into the soft parts of my mind. I wanted to go back, rewind, hold his hand in that fluorescent light and tell him, “This is yours.”

It wasn’t about the Snickers, not really. It was about agency, about choosing a thing and having it be yours, about trust and how easily it can slip. I saw myself in him, in his hesitation, in the way he carefully, deliberately made a choice, then had it quietly taken away by something as meaningless as forgetfulness. I have lived that cycle a thousand times. To want, to reach, to be met with an empty hand.

Tomorrow, I will buy him too many Snickers. I will place them in his hands, let him feel the weight of them, the absurdity of abundance. But it will not be the same. Because the moment is gone, and you can’t stitch a ghost back into your life once it has floated out of reach.

Still, I will do it. Because love is about returning to the places where we failed and trying, trying, trying. Because even when time moves forward without us, we claw at it, begging to be let back in. Because sometimes, love is just the act of making sure someone else never feels the hollow space of an almost-had-it moment.

Even if it’s late. Even if it’s imperfect. Even if it’s just a Snickers bar in a little boy’s hands.