Apples for August, written by Anushka Kar and directed by Jeremy Watson,speaks to the weight of release that flows from the relief of what it means to be fully seen. Set in an apple orchard in upstate New York, the story follows a growing bond between August, a high school senior, and Jude, an aspiring artist gearing up for college. Anushka Kar stars as August, while Patrick Eckland steps into the role of Jude.

This coming-of-age play, which premiered at the Next Step Theatre Festival in New York City on May 30, unfolded like a song of remembrance. For me, it stirred a pulse in the chest—the throb of life, a recognition of being met with presence and held without judgment.

The dialogue between August and Jude feels organic, even effortless. Witty moments elicited peals of laughter from the audience. Beneath the surface, though, the script dips into an oasis that rustles and stirs with deeper threads—what does it mean to just be, without performance or polish? What does faith mean to someone who has never believed in it? These musings, rooted in simplicity, strike a universal chord insofar as a yearning for visibility.

Tactile moments—like Jude shrugging into a fresh shirt before a new scene—add texture and realism to the staging. Seasonal shifts mirror emotional changes, setting a rhythm that ground the play in both time and feeling.

And then, there’s a twist I didn’t see coming—Jude loses his eyesight, almost overnight. In that sudden darkness, the earlier contrast between Jude’s belief in something greater fades into August’s skepticism in the powers that be. Now, Jude feels unmoored, while August—still herself, still uncertain—becomes his anchor. The move to tilt this paradigm on its axis feels like a masterstroke, a metaphor for the fragility of human perception and for the deeper seeing that sometimes happens only when the surface is peeled raw. It also marks August’s steady rise into the power of her natural self.

And here is one of the most haunting lines when Jude tells August, “Every time I hear your voice, it’s painful. It grows increasingly tired.” Jude hears the ache of love, of concern, of yearning in August’s voice. And yet, it’s her voice that holds him, quivering yet steady, lost yet present, frustrated yet alive with the ache of loving someone who knows her in his new reality. He can no longer see her, nor pursue his art as before, but her voice carries an evolving truth. Against that backdrop, the narrative, in its nuanced subtlety, offers a portrait of paradox—of grief and connection, loss and presence.

Apples for August invites us into a space where longing coexists with tinner light, where rootedness becomes its own quiet power. The longing to be seen and heard is one many can relate to. And that’s exactly what this play gives you. Your vision and your voice.