It started with a drawer.
The small one on the left of my study desk — the one that always jammed unless you tugged it just right. I hadn't touched it in years, not even in memory. But today, I opened it without thinking.
Inside, I found dust, a dried-out pen, an old Hot Wheels car I thought I'd lost, and a tangle of things I didn't realize I had buried.
Among them was a folded comic panel Hari had drawn — his version of us as superheroes. Mine had wings made of notebook pages, his wielded a cricket bat that turned into a guitar. It was childish, half-erased, scribbled in frustration, but it made me sit back for a second and smile.
Then a wave of guilt hit me like a slap.
Because I hadn't thought of him with fondness in a long time. Only anger. Silence. That last argument in the corridor, when I said things I never meant. And he said nothing. Just turned and walked away.
I had always told myself he gave up. That he was the one who stopped trying.
But looking at that comic now… maybe he didn't.
I didn't plan to keep digging. But something in me wouldn't stop.
---
I cleaned under the bed, brushing away candy wrappers and lost pens until I spotted something odd. Tucked between the wall and the wooden panel, almost invisible in the shadows, was a yellowing envelope.
I pulled it out carefully. The paper was soft from time to time, the edges curled. There was no stamp, no date — just my name written in shaky blue ink.
I knew the handwriting immediately.
Hari.
For a moment, my fingers didn't move. I just stared at it, afraid to breathe. I didn't know what I was holding — a goodbye, an apology, a wound.
I opened it.
---
"Hey idiot,
If you're reading this, you probably broke my drawer like you always do. Or maybe you're looking for that stupid Hot Wheels car again.
I'm writing this because I don't know how to say things to your face. I always joke when things get serious. You know that. But there are things you should know.
I envy you. Not in the jealous way, but in the I-wish-I-was-you way. You always look like you've got it figured out. Even when you're scared, you make it look easy. I never told you, but that made me feel small sometimes. Like I was the background character in your story.
But I liked being your friend. God, that sounds lame. But it's true.
I used to think we'd grow old still talking about movies and music and building dumb dreams together. Like that music club we never started. You laughed, but I was serious. Maybe not about the club — but about the fact that I wanted something that lasted.
Then things changed.
We got busy. You got quieter. I started saying stupid things to get your attention. To make you laugh again. But I think I just made things worse.
I don't know how to fix it. I just know I don't want to lose what we had.
If we're still friends when you read this — cool. Burn this letter.
If we're not… maybe this will help you understand why.
– H."
---
I sat there for a long time, the paper trembling between my fingers.
I remembered all the times I rolled my eyes when he called, left his messages unread, acted like I was too grown up for his nonsense. I thought he was being clingy and dramatic. I never saw the truth in his jokes — never noticed the way he was reaching out with laughter as a shield.
This letter had been there all along. Just lying beneath me. Beneath the bed where I slept through days of thinking I'd been abandoned.
He never abandoned me.
I left him waiting.
---
I folded the letter back with the kind of care usually reserved for breakable things. It feels alive now. Heavy.
I opened my closet. Dug out an old bag. Changed clothes.
I knew where I'd find him.
The tea shop near the school gate — the one where we used to sit and share a single vada and complain about teachers. If he wasn't there, maybe the library steps. Or the field.
Anywhere the past still lingered.
I didn't know what I was going to say. I didn't know if he'd even talk to me. But I knew one thing.
I couldn't lose him again.
Not this time.
Not when I had proof that he never stopped caring.