Age 17

He came in the middle of our second term, when everybody had already decided who they were going to be. Final year had a way of doing that. Relationships sealed, ambitions already defined. No one was trying anything new anymore. Except Khalid.

He wasn’t nervous the way new students were. He was simply uninterested. He was quiet in a way that showed he didn’t want his presence known.

When the English teacher introduced him, I didn’t even bother to look up.
“This is…” I didn’t catch it. It didn’t seem important. He took the empty seat at the back of the classroom. Nobody sat beside him, and it seemed like he wanted it that way.

I noticed him again during literature class. Not because he raised his hand, or that he said something profound. But while everyone else complained about the poem of the day, he smiled. It was like he knew something the rest of the class had missed. After second period, while everyone else sat in the dining room, laughing, arguing, engaging in whatever activity was most enjoyable, he would sit under the mango tree by the basketball court with a book in hand. It wasn’t a textbook, but a real book. Wuthering Heights.

I watched with hesitation, but later gave in to my impulse and approached him.
“Is it good?” I asked.
He looked up, startled. He paused as he carefully studied my face.
“It is,” he answered, “but only if you savour it.”
I sat next to him, my back resting against the tree.
“What does that mean?” I further inquired.
“You have to read it slowly so you don’t miss what it’s trying to say.”
I didn’t fully understand what he meant, but I listened anyway as he explained to me what he had learned from the book.

It became a habit after that. It wasn’t planned, or discussed. We simply fell into a rhythm. I would find him under the tree during break time and sit with him as he read aloud.

We only spoke of ourselves in fragments, in between the pages of the books. We didn’t really know anything of each other, other than the fact that we both loved books, but being with him was easy. I didn’t need to put on a performance to be liked. We both simply existed in each other’s presence, just reading, side by side.

He lent me a book once, his fingers brushing mine as he handed it to me. We stood in silence, holding the book longer than necessary.
“Don’t rush it,” he said, as he finally let go.
I didn’t.

I took it everywhere, reading it in the school bus, between classes, late into the night, and even in the early hours of the morning. I underlined sentences that spoke to me, folded corners of the pages I loved, holding onto those words like they meant something more. When I returned it, he noticed.
“You marked it,” he said, with a faint smile.
“I liked those parts,” I replied.
He flipped through the pages, pausing at the folded corners and underlined sentences. Then he really smiled this time.
“Good,” he said.

One afternoon, as we walked past the small fruit stall outside the school gate, he stopped.
“Do you like apples?” he asked.
“I guess,” I shrugged.
He bought one anyway. Green. With a small bruise on the side.
“For reading,” he said, as he handed it to me.
I laughed. “What does that mean?”
“It just feels like something you should have while reading.”
I turned it in my hand, inspecting it like it would reveal some kind of answer.
“You’re weird,” I said.
“I know.” He didn’t deny it.

People had started to notice, but it didn’t matter. I began to look for him in rooms where we weren’t together, and he began to wait for me outside classes he didn’t take.

On graduation day, everything felt louder than usual. The peaceful quiet was no longer there. We both knew that the real world would be different, not as accommodating. While my mates signed shirts and took photographs, I looked for him in the crowd. I watched his eyes as I walked up to him, how they were looking at anything but me. I already knew what he was too afraid to say.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” I asked.
He nodded. “I got a scholarship in Manchester.”

I knew he was looking, and I was happy for him, truly. But I was also sad because I knew that he might never come back. They usually never did.
“Don’t forget me,” I said. It was more of a command than a plea, as if he could will his mind to withstand the passage of time.
“I won’t,” he said, finally meeting my eyes.

With that, I walked away. There was so much more I wanted to say. That I would miss him. That reading wouldn’t feel the same again. But what was the point?
“Safa!” he called from behind. “I almost forgot,” he said as he jogged over to me.
He reached into his bag and brought out an apple. Green, unpolished. Just like the first one.
“For later,” he said.

I didn’t eat it. Not that day, or the next. I kept it on my desk, reliving the moment for as long as time would allow until the apple slowly wasted away without my permission.

 

Age 23

We chose a bookshop. It was only right since books were the foundation of our friendship. Dim lights, hushed voices, the kind of place where conversations carried without much talking.

I arrived first. I always needed a few minutes to settle, preparing myself for moments that felt like they mattered too much. I traced the rim of my coffee cup as I watched the door open and close, anticipating his arrival.

I wondered if he had changed, if time had touched him, but when he walked in the door, I was breathless. He looked exactly the same. My mind didn’t fail me in remembering him, even the mole he had on his temple was the same. Then his eyes found mine, and it looked like he found home. Just like that, all the years in between felt misplaced. Irrelevant.

“Still early, as always,” he said, as he took the seat opposite me.
I let out a chuckle. “Still late.”

It was like no time had passed at all. We spoke easily. Where we lived, how everything changed after school, adult responsibilities, people we used to know. It was almost disappointing how ordinary it was. I had expected something grander. Instead, it felt like we picked up where we left off, and I wondered why I had worried so much. Until the air shifted.

“You became a lawyer,” he said, leaning back slightly as he studied me with a look that felt like curiosity, but not the kind I remembered.
“The rumours are true,” I answered lightly.
He smiled, but there was something in it, something I couldn’t place.
“I always thought you’d…” he paused, turning the words in his mouth before finally speaking them. “I thought you wanted to write poetry.”
I couldn’t ignore the way his words landed. Not harsh, no animosity. Just… disappointment.

“I do write poetry,” I said.
“Do you?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. It was said like a joke, but I knew it wasn’t one.
I folded my hands together. “I have a job. A demanding one,” I attempted to explain.
“So do I,” he replied dismissively.
“Yes, but your job is writing,” my words were a little sharper than I intended. But he didn’t flinch.
“If you wanted, it could’ve been yours too.”
There it was, the silent judgment that filled the air.

“You make it sound like I betrayed something.”
“Didn’t you?” he asked.
He said it like the years had been filled with simple choices, easy and predictable.
“You think I didn’t try?” I asked quietly. “My submissions were all declined.”
“So you decided to go with the safe option?” he continued to challenge.
“That doesn’t make it any less real. You studied literature. I, on the other hand, had to make a practical decision.”

He didn’t understand, and I wasn’t in the mood to explain. He used to be able to read my eyes, see my thoughts before I even spoke them. But he couldn’t understand the quiet pressure that was real life. The way dreams like writing weren’t dismissed but eventually set aside for something more practical.

“Congratulations on your book,” I said in an effort to shift the topic away from me.
He studied me for a moment longer, like he knew I had chosen not to say something.
“Thank you,” he replied.
“I read it,” I added. His expression shifted, as if what I was about to say next was more significant than anything that was said before.
“And?”
“It felt…” I paused, searching for a fitting word, “… distant.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like you were writing about things you didn’t feel anymore. Things you could only observe.”

He leaned forward, interest flared. He looked in my eyes with something like contempt.
“You think you can do better,” he said with a smirk.
“No, I think I would’ve done it differently.”
“In what way?” he questioned.
“I wouldn’t have left parts of myself out of it.”
He scoffed, like I had just said something silly.
“That’s easy to say when you’re not the one being read.”
“And it’s easier to hide when you are,” I shot back.

The words lingered between us as we both stared at each other.

“I didn’t come here to argue,” he said.
“Neither did I,” I replied. “But here we are”

The conversation never recovered. We tried to change the topic, looking for light-hearted moments to ease the tension, but blood had already boiled.

Years later, I would replay that evening, not for what was said, but for what wasn’t. I was convinced he was my soulmate, and I thought that lunch was the day that my fantasies would come to reality.

But I had to face the awful realisation that he was no longer who I remembered.

 

Age 30

I almost didn’t buy the apples. They were slightly bruised, stacked carelessly in a crate on the ground. But I picked it up anyway. I was pulled to it like gravity, and I didn’t question why.
“I see you still like the bruised ones.”
The voice came from behind. It was familiar, warm. I froze for a second. How many years had it been? I slowly turned, afraid that if I moved too fast, he would disappear, proving to be a figment of my imagination.

But there he was. Tall, lanky as always, with lines forming across his forehead. His hair was a little thinner, but his eyes… they were still the same.
“I could say the same about you,” I replied. He smiled.
We stood for a moment, between shelves, scanning each others faces. Words seemed lost on me, looking at him like a stranger, but feeling like a piece of my soul had returned.
“Are you in a hurry?”
I was, I had a meeting with my editor. But I found myself shaking my head no in answer.
“Take a walk with me.”

We walked slowly, exchanging shallow pleasantries.
“I heard about your chapbook,” He said once the pleasantries were exhausted. I was surprised. It wasn’t exactly popular.
“You did?”
“Of course. Immediately after it came out!”
I smiled. “It’s just poetry.” Poems that were all written about him.
“It’s not just,” he said. “They were beautiful.”
I studied him, trying to place his tone. Was it teasing? Or was he just certain?

“I almost didn’t publish it,” I admitted.
“Why?” he asked.
“I didn’t want you thinking I was obsessed with you.”
He let out a quiet laugh. “That’s a shame,” he said, stopping to look at me, studying my eyes. “Because I am obsessed with you.”
I blushed. But I couldn’t hold his gaze. I quickly looked away and continued walking.
“I’m still trying to get mine out,” he said. “It’s been… difficult.”
“You? Difficult? I don’t believe it.”
“It turns out doing it once doesn’t mean you’ll always know how to do it again,” he continued.

He had changed. The Khalid I knew used to be so sure.
“What happened to you?” I asked.
“Time,” he said with a shrug.
There was no bitterness. Just truth. And I knew then, he understood.
“You know, I thought you gave up something when you chose law,” he admitted. “You were just being realistic.”
It softened my heart to hear him say that. Not because he was right, but because he finally understood.
“I quit,” I blurted. He looked surprised. “You were right. I did betray myself.”
He looked at me for a moment with something like pride.
“I’m happy for you,” he said.

The words gently settled between us. I looked down at my hands, willing the courage to come for me to say what I needed to say.
“I almost told you the last time we met,” I said quietly.
“Told me what?” he stilled. Time stilled. And honestly, it felt like even the wind had stilled.
“That I loved you.”

I let the words go. Placed them carefully between us like something fragile that I had been carrying for so long. But he didn’t look surprised.

“I think I knew,” he said. “I just didn’t know what to do with it back then.”
“That makes two of us,” I laughed. “I would’ve stayed, you know,” I said, “back then in the cafe, if you had asked me.”
He shook his head. “No.”
“No?”
“You wouldn’t have become who you are now if you did.”
He smiled. And I think it was the first time I had seen him smile so fully, like he didn’t have a care in the world. And for a moment, I saw that 17 year old boy again, quiet, holding onto things no one else noticed.

We continued walking, but I couldn’t help but notice his breathlessness. Even though he was always slim, it seemed liked he somehow managed to lose weight that was never there.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
He nodded. “Just tired.”
We walked a few more steps in silence. Then he stopped at nothing in particular.
“I don’t have as much time as I thought I did,” he said.

At first, I was confused. I thought he meant that he needed to go. But then I noticed the tears in his eyes. Then I understood the lines across his face, the weight loss, and why his breathing was so heavy.

“What is it?” I asked, trying to swallow the ball that had suddenly lodged in my throat.
“Something that isn’t going away,” he said lightly. “Cancer.”
My chest tightened.
“How long have you known?”
“A while.”
“And you didn’t—” I stopped myself. Why would he tell me? We hadn’t talked in years. “Are you scared?” I asked instead.
He thought about it for a moment.
“Not in the way I expected to be,” he answered. “I just wish I had understood things sooner.”
I swallowed. “You understand now.”
He smiled faintly. “Now that it’s less useful.”

We stood there, side by side. Close, but not touching.
“Some people,” he said quietly, “aren’t meant to stay.”
“Yes.” I glanced at him. My eyes burned, but I didn’t let the tears fall. “Will I see you again?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. And somehow, that was enough for the tears to break through.
He reached into the paper bag he had been carrying and pulled something out.
He placed it in my hand. An apple.

I let out a soft, broken laugh.
“I had to stay consistent with something,” he said.

This time, I didn’t save it. I took a bite. He watched me, something warm and quiet in his expression.
“Don’t rush,” he reminded me.
I nodded, even as my vision blurred.

 

 

 

 

Photo by Ale Maciel on Unsplash