— by Amina
There are people who once knew and loved the growing, slightly annoying version of you, that doesn’t exist anymore. Not relationships that ended in fights or tears– just the ones that stretched apart, quietly. Time has a way of rearranging things without asking.
I think about the little kid who used to sit next to me on the bus, whom I virtually adopted. We saved snacks for each other, complained about homework, and fought over the window seat. It felt permanent, just as childhood always does. Of course, we would always sit next to each other. Of course, tomorrow would look like today.
But one day, the bus routes changed. Then the buses changed. Then the schools changed. And somewhere in between all that movement, someone who once felt essential became just a memory I do not even know how to revisit. It’s strange how that happens.
The same with cousins, the ones you ran around with until you were breathless, until someone’s mother shouted your names from a distance. Back then, we didn’t need conversations, just proximity, shared boredom and summer evenings that stretched endlessly.
Now we meet at weddings and speak carefully.
“What are you studying now?” “How’s everything?” As if we weren’t once feral and inseparable.
Growing up doesn’t usually break things dramatically. It just introduces awareness. You become more self-conscious. More curated. You move to different cities, build different vocabularies, carry different anxieties. And slowly, without deciding to, you stop being the same person to each other.
The distance isn’t loud; it forms quietly. A missed call, a postponed visit, a new routine, a new friend group. Until one day you realise you wouldn’t know how to restart the conversation without feeling slightly formal.
And what makes these lost connections heavy isn’t regret.
It’s familiarity.
They knew you before you filtered yourself. Before ambition, before comparison, before awkwardness, became permanent.
Sometimes I wonder if they remember me too; not who I am now, but who I was when life felt smaller, louder, simpler. I hope they remember it fondly. I know I do.
Not all endings announce themselves.
Some just fade into bus seats, summer evenings, unfinished sentences.
Maybe some people are meant to belong to a version of you.
And maybe remembering that version is enough.
— Edited by Eshani Bhattacharjee | Design by Neenu Elza
Article 19 