Best Friends Forever

We met when we were six—two scrappy girls with mismatched ponytails and scraped knees, building castles out of sticks in the schoolyard. Her name was Asha, and from the moment she offered me half of her chocolate chip cookie, we were inseparable.

We did everything together. Birthday parties, sleepovers, dance class, getting in trouble for whispering too much during lessons—we were two halves of one spirit. People would say, “Where there’s Asha, there’s Diya,” and they were right. Our friendship wasn’t ordinary. It was soul-deep, unspoken, forever.

In high school, when the world began to shape and stretch us, we still fit. She was the dreamer, the artist, the girl who painted stars on her ceiling and believed that love could fix anything. I was the planner, the realist, the one who made to-do lists for vacations. We balanced each other—her wildness gave me wings, and my grounding gave her roots.

She was the first person I called when I got my heart broken, sobbing in the middle of the night. And I was the one holding her hand in silence when her dog, Bubbles, passed away. There was nothing too big or too small—we were always there.

We made a pact when we were sixteen, sitting on a creaky old bench by the river as the sun dipped behind the trees, painting the sky gold. That bench became ours—our secret sanctuary. We promised we’d be each other’s bridesmaids, godmothers to each other’s kids, roommates in an old beach house once we were retired. We promised we’d be forever.

But forever is a word humans invented. Life doesn't always honor it.

It started with the headaches. She’d brush them off—“Just stress,” she’d laugh, popping an Advil. But the migraines grew worse. Then came the dizzy spells. The hospital visits. The tests.

She called me crying the day the diagnosis came. Brain tumor. Aggressive. Stage 4.

I froze. My world tilted. I had no words. No plan. No way to fix it.

She was twenty-four.

The next year passed in a blur of surgeries, chemotherapy, hope, and heartbreak. Some days she was herself—painting, laughing, making me dance in the hospital room to old Bollywood songs. Other days, she’d drift in and out, her once-bright eyes dulled by pain.

But she never let me stop smiling. Even when her hair fell out. Even when the treatments stopped working. “Don’t cry yet,” she’d say, “I’m still here.”

We sat on that bench again, one last time, when she was strong enough for a walk. Her head was wrapped in a scarf, her skin pale, but her smile? It was still hers.

She placed her hand in mine and whispered, “Promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“When I go, don’t let this be the end of our story. Write about us. Tell them how beautiful friendship can be. Make them believe in forever, even if we didn’t get ours.”

I promised. Through tears I didn’t let her see, I promised.

Three weeks later, she was gone.

No more messages. No late-night calls. No shared laughter. Just a quiet emptiness that pressed into my chest every day.

At her funeral, they asked me to speak. I stood trembling, holding back sobs, and said:

“She wasn’t just my best friend. She was my other half. My compass. My laughter on the darkest days. She taught me that love doesn’t need romance to be eternal. She gave me a forever, even though it wasn’t nearly long enough.”

After the service, I walked alone to our bench. The sun was setting—like that evening when we made our forever promise. I sat down, the wind cool on my cheeks, and closed my eyes.

I could almost feel her beside me.

I whispered, “I’m writing our story, Asha. Just like I promised.”

Author's Note:

This story isn’t just about losing someone—it’s about holding on. To love. To friendship. To the unspoken promises we make. And if you’re lucky enough to have someone like Asha in your life, hug them tighter tonight.