I thought the Mangoes were mine

let me tell you the tale of my tragic encounter with a mango tree along my path to school. It all started, innocently enough, with my frequent visits to this particular tree. I had developed quite an obsession with it, you see. Every day, I would walk by, eyeing the fruits, and fantasizing about the day I would pluck them all for myself.

I had become quite the mango connoisseur, timing the ripening of each fruit with precision. Oh, I had big plans for those juicy, golden treasures. I dreamt of sweet, succulent bites and mango-filled bliss. The anticipation was unbearable, yet exhilarating.

But, alas! The day I had longed for finally arrived, and I embarked on my mission to claim those mangoes for my own. My heart raced with excitement as I approached the mango tree, my eyes scanning the branches for signs of ripeness. To my utter horror, I discovered that the tree was now bare, completely stripped of its fruity delight!

Disbelief enveloped me, and I frantically peered and peeked through the branches, hoping for a glimmer of hope, an overlooked mango that I could snatch away. And then, there it was, the sole survivor of that merciless mango massacre: a single unripe mango, hanging stubbornly on a high branch, mocking me.

Enraged and fueled by disappointment, I mustered all my strength and dexterity to reach for that pitiful green mango. With a tug, it came loose, landing forcefully into my palm. In a fit of frustration, I sunk my teeth into it, anticipating an explosion of flavor, only to be met with a sour, unripe disaster.

I didn't give up on it, with all my expectations thrown into the mud, I persistently ate the unripe mango and finished it.
At least I achieved something, didn't I?