Have you ever opened an old cupboard…
the kind that smells slightly of dust and time…
and found a photo album tucked away at the back?
The plastic sleeves sticking a little,
photos slightly faded,
and suddenly—you’re not just looking at pictures…
You’re back there.
Back in the 90s, in a building compound in Mumbai,
friendships didn’t need planning.
There were no phones in our pockets.
No “Where are you?” messages.
Evenings just… happened.
Around 5:30, when the heat started to settle
and the sound of pressure cookers echoed from every home…
kids would slowly come down.
Cricket bats appeared.
Cycles rolled out.
Someone would shout from the balcony,
“Come down!”
And she would already be there.
Leaning on her cycle near the gate,
one foot on the ground,
waiting like she knew I was about to show up.
We didn’t ask, “Are you free?”
We just were.
Some days, we’d walk to the corner shop,
count coins carefully,
and buy one ₹5 packet of chips to share.
Other days, we’d sit on the building steps—
talking about school,
teachers we couldn’t stand,
and dreams that felt so close back then… like they were just waiting for us.
When we couldn’t meet,
we wrote notes.
Small, folded chits—
passed in class,
or slipped under the door when no one was looking.
“Come down tomorrow.”
“Don’t forget.”
That was enough.
And we used to say it all the time—
“No matter what happens, this stays.”
And for a long time… it did.
Until one day, it didn’t.
My family moved.
A different part of the city…
that might as well have been another world back then.
There were no quick calls.
Landlines were shared,
timed,
and never really private.
So we wrote letters.
I still remember sitting at the table,
thinking about what to say…
trying to fit my whole week into a few pages.
Waiting for the postman became a routine.
That small moment of hope—
“Maybe today.”
The first few letters were long.
Full of everything.
Full of our stories and secrets.
But slowly… something changed.
The letters became shorter.
The gaps became longer.
Until one day,
I realized I was the only one still writing.
And then… I stopped too.
No goodbye.
No final conversation.
Just… silence.
The kind that stretches quietly into years.
And that’s the part about growing up no one really prepares you for:
Friendships don’t always end with a reason.
Sometimes, life just moves people out of each other’s everyday lives.
As we grow older,
the places that once held our friendships together… disappear.
No more building compounds.
No more fixed evenings.
No more shared routines.
Life becomes schedules, responsibilities, different worlds.
And the person who once fit so easily into your day…
no longer has a place in it.
It’s not that you stopped caring.
It’s just that life kept going.
Maybe she changed.
Maybe I did too.
But what we had—
those evenings, those silly conversations,
that one packet of chips stretched too far—
that was real.
And it mattered.
Some friendships belong to a version of your life
that you can’t go back to.
And that’s okay.
Because their purpose wasn’t to stay forever—
it was to be there when you needed them the most.
So here’s something that might stay with you:
“Some people were part of your daily life once…
and then they became part of your memory.
And somehow, both are equally important.”
I don’t know where she is now.
We don’t talk.
But sometimes, in the evening—
around 5:30—
when the light hits the buildings just right,
and I hear kids playing downstairs…
I pause.
Because for a second,
it feels like she might still be there,
waiting near the gate.
So if you ever think about someone you’ve lost touch with—
don’t just feel the distance.
Remember the version of you that existed with them.
We outgrew the moment…
but never the meaning it had.
And maybe that’s what growing older really does.
It doesn’t just change us—
it changes the space around our friendships.
When we’re younger, friendships are built on proximity…
same building, same school, same time.
But as life moves on,
those shared spaces disappear.
And without even realizing it,
we start building different lives,
with different routines,
becoming different versions of ourselves.
Somewhere between who we were and who we became…
we left a version of us that still feels like home.
