Memory of a Friend

 Memory of a Friend

I still remember the first time we met. It was at the old, dusty library that no one seemed to
visit anymore. I had been there searching for a book, a history text for my class, but I never found it. Instead, I found you, sitting at a small corner table, scribbling in a worn notebook with an intensity that was almost contagious.

You didn’t notice me at first. Your head was buried in the pages, your fingers moving quickly, as if the thoughts inside your head were racing to get out. But eventually, I couldn’t help myself. I had to ask.

“What are you writing?”

You looked up, startled, then smiled. It was a quiet, knowing smile—the kind that told me you had something to say, but only if I was truly interested.

“Stories,” you replied simply. “Stories about things that have yet to happen.”

I raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Like… predictions?”

You shook your head. “No, not predictions. Just… possibilities. What could happen. What might happen, if only we chose to see it that way.”

I didn’t quite understand, but I was fascinated. And that’s how it started. We began meeting every week, sometimes to write together, other times just to talk. You told me about your stories—stories of fantastical places, of worlds I could never have imagined. You told me about your dreams, your hopes, your fears, and how they all found their way into the pages of your notebook.

We were different, you and I. I was cautious, always thinking ahead, making sure to follow the rules. You, on the other hand, were bold. You followed the twists and turns of your imagination, diving into things that no one else seemed to dare.

But it didn’t matter. We fit together, like pieces of a puzzle.

And then, one day, you weren’t there anymore.

It wasn’t sudden—at least, not in the way I thought it would be. You missed one of our meetings, then another, and eventually, I stopped hearing from you. I kept going to the library, hoping to see you there, but the seat by the window remained empty. I wondered if you had moved, or if something had happened.

Weeks turned into months, and slowly, the pain of your absence dulled into a distant ache. Life carried on. I graduated. I moved to another city. I found new friends. But every now and then, I would think of you—the stories you had told me, the way you had opened my eyes to new possibilities.

Then, last year, I received a letter. It was from you.

“Dear [Aashish],

I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner, but I didn’t know how. I’ve been gone, not just physically but in ways that were hard to explain. The truth is, I’ve been fighting something—a kind of darkness, something I couldn’t push away, no matter how hard I tried. I thought I could outrun it, but in the end, it caught up with me.

But I want you to know this: You were one of the bright spots in my life. You made me believe that there was something worth writing about, worth living for. So, thank you. For being my friend, for sharing your time with me. For showing me that there’s more to the world than just the rules and the routine.

I don’t know what the future holds, but I hope that wherever you are, you’re still following your own stories.

With love,

Your Anurag.”

The letter sat in my hands for a long time. The words felt like they had travelled across time and distance, bridging a gap that I hadn’t even realised existed. I hadn’t known that you had been struggling. I hadn’t known that the darkness had followed you, quietly pulling at the edges of your world until you could no longer hold it back.

But I understood now, in a way I hadn’t before. The stories you told me—they weren’t just about fantasy. They were about survival, about hope, and about the importance of connection.

I can’t say I’ve stopped thinking about you. I still remember our talks, your laughter, and how we used to spend hours lost in our worlds of words. And even though you’re gone, I know that a part of you is still here—woven into the stories we shared, the friendship we built, and the memory of all that you gave me.