A Story of Nostalgia, Friendship, and Growing Apart
Tista… Do you remember those Saturdays we left behind?
I was passing by the school gate today—maybe it was the quiet lull of a Saturday afternoon that stirred up the nostalgia. But you know what really brought it rushing back? The heavy, overcast sky.
Do you remember how we used to skip class? Our flimsy excuses, the sneaking off—just the two of us—to spin stories. Even the headmistress was puzzled, wondering what kind of bond or secret tales could lure two top students away from their books. But we knew. We knew the world we were building—how much more it meant than any exam ever could.
Our tiny universe. The pages of that ragged diary. Our epic.
You once said those dreams felt childish—that you’d outgrown them. And then, you drifted away. Toward new faces. New voices.
I stood there, still trying to understand.
Was I wrong to imagine you as someone like me? Or did you only pretend to be like me for a while? Why bring others into the world we built? Weren’t we enough?
Still, I kept trying. I searched the crowds you gathered, hoping to find a glimpse of you in some corner of that old schoolyard. But every face was a version of you—starting new stories, holding fresh diaries.
And then one day, I stopped.
I handed you my torn diary. You were already gone—so busy falling in love with the new. And I walked away, carrying the quiet ache of not belonging in your world anymore.
I thought I’d forget it all in time. I didn’t.
Not even for a second.
So I wrote again—just like before. No date. No polish. Just the truth, drifting like a message in a bottle across the sea of memory.
Tista, if these words ever reach you—up there in the tower you built with your crowd—I hope you’re happy. There’s no one beside you now to shape the past. I’ve sailed far.
But just answer me one thing, if you ever find a quiet moment:
It hurt me to leave you. Did it ever hurt you that I went?