One for old times' sake

Dipping out of dad’s Log Book of Oceans for a bit, this blog is dedicated to a trace of guilt that lingers still.

I spent a night with my oldest best friend. We spoke all night. She was lying next to me, chatting and laughing, and for a minute I felt like a 14-year-old again.

Right after that moment, I missed her. Dearly. The pang was strongest in the following instant. I missed the girl of 14 that she was; I missed the girl of 14 that I was.

I missed the thoughtless phone conversations, the mindless wanderings. I missed the way we made up love stories for each other, how we understood without any attempt to hide a smirk when the other insisted: “This time it is love”. I missed how we listened to each word uttered by the other as though it meant the world to us; how we planned slumber parties knowing all along that it will never happen. I missed how she missed me on all those class trips, how she brought back that moorthi of Ganpathi every time saying: “Nothing can make you happier”. I missed her calling me up when she wanted to cry; I missed her wanting me to call her when I was down.

I woke up in the morning and saw her lying next to me. Ignorant to what I was thinking. Unaware of how much I missed her; how much I missed myself.