It was a cosy evening, under the silent trees and the bumbling fireflies, Potato was busy in his usual routine, wandering around in worlds beyond imagination, trying to figure out the mysteries of his life. He was wondering how to survive with his friends far away in a galaxy that only the eyes can see.
Glowing with energy and the lights that make the absence of the twinkling stars in the cloudy sky unnoticeable. Potato had his flaws, and somehow, those flaws brought him closer to the harsh reality. It was a time of melancholy, of happiness, of inventing new things. In those inspiring times came Tomato, she was different, a little red ball of explosive energy. They had some of the best times together, going through the paces.
She had a laugh that felt like the first warm day after a brutal winter. Potato used to think the sun followed her. She’d roll into a room, and suddenly, it was brighter. It seemed inevitable that someone like him, a humble and grounded spud, would be drawn to her vibrant, radiant orbit.
They met in autumn. Tomato had been sitting outside a little market, flipping through a tattered recipe book. She looked up, caught him staring, and smiled. Not a polite smile or one of those fleeting, forgettable ones—but the kind of smile that lingered, like the final note of a song you didn’t want to end.
“You like cooking?” she asked, holding up the book. Her voice was smooth but carried an edge, like she was testing him.
“I… don’t know,” Potato admitted, stumbling over his words. “I’ve never really tried.”
“You should.” She handed him the book, her smooth skin brushing against his. “Here. Start with this.”
That’s how it began: with borrowed recipes and borrowed time. What followed were months of late-night conversations, strolls through garden rows, and shared dreams. Tomato loved fiercely, and Potato, clumsy and unsure, tried to match her intensity. Every part of her life was vivid, like a painting splashed with the richest colours, and for a while, she painted him into her masterpiece.
But love, as it turns out, isn’t always enough.
The cracks started small, barely noticeable at first. A forgotten picnic. A strained silence where there once was laughter. Potato told himself it was normal—that fruits like Tomato, with their boundless energy and untamed hearts, couldn’t always be tethered to one place or one spud.
One evening, after yet another fight about nothing and everything, Tomato looked at him with an expression he couldn’t place. It wasn’t anger or sadness. It was… resignation.
“We’re losing each other, aren’t we?” she asked softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Potato wanted to deny it, to tell her they could fix it, that they could go back to the way they were. But the words stuck in his throat. Instead, he just nodded.
The end came quietly. No shouting, no dramatic gestures. Just a mutual understanding that what they had built was unravelling. They parted ways on a grey morning, the sky mirroring their moods. Tomato hugged him tightly, and for a moment, he thought she might change her mind. But then she let go, whispered “goodbye,” and rolled away.
In the weeks that followed, Potato tried to move on. He buried himself in work, picked up new hobbies, and even attempted to mingle with others at the market. But the truth was, Tomato had left an imprint on him, one that no amount of distraction could erase.
He still saw her in the smallest things: a sunflower swaying in the wind, the melody of a street musician’s guitar, the smell of freshly baked bread. Each reminder was both a comfort and a wound, a testament to the love they shared and the heartbreak that followed.
People say time heals all wounds, but Potato had learned that wasn’t entirely true. Some wounds become scars, faint but permanent. And maybe that was okay. Because scars, after all, are proof that we’ve lived, that we’ve loved, and that we’ve survived.
The city’s lights flickered on as dusk settled in. Potato kept walking, though he was no longer aimless. Somewhere in the distance, he heard the faint hum of music, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he smiled. It wasn’t the same as it was, but it was something. And for now, that was enough.
The city had never looked so empty. Streets once alive with bustling cafes and impromptu street performances now seemed to stretch endlessly, each cobblestone weighed down with silence. Rain fell in a steady rhythm, soaking the earth and masking the sound of footsteps—Potato’s footsteps—as he wandered aimlessly through the avenues he and Tomato once claimed as theirs.
Tomato may not be there in the physical realm, but from the galaxy far far away, she was there consistently supporting and motivating Potato to push forward and never look back. They were connected telepathically, and nothing could break that bond for them, not even the tiny battle scars that led them to the brink of separation.