Friend For Ever

It has been eight years since I lost my closest friend, Nurul Anam Babu.

Babu and I shared everything. We grew up in the same neighborhood, studied together, played cricket till sunset, and even dreamed of building a future side by side. He wasn’t just my friend — he was like a brother to me. When he passed away suddenly in a tragic accident, it felt as if a piece of my soul had been torn away. The world kept moving, but for me, time had frozen in that one painful moment.

In the months that followed, I waited — waited for Babu to visit me in my dreams. I had heard many people say that those we love and lose often come to us in sleep — offering comfort, a message, or a final goodbye. Each night I hoped. Before going to bed, I said his name, held onto an old picture of us, and even prayed that I would dream of him. He did not, however, appear night after night. Not even once.

It hurt. I felt forgotten, left behind in grief. I couldn’t understand why — was he too far away? Had he moved on to another world where I couldn’t reach him?

As the years passed, I eventually stopped waiting. Life pushed me forward. Responsibilities, work, family — they filled my days, even if they couldn’t fill the empty place Babu left behind. I smiled again, I laughed sometimes, but part of me still longed for that one final meeting — even just a glimpse of him in sleep.

Then, just a few nights ago, something unexpected happened.

I had a dream — vivid, almost real. I found myself walking down a dusty alleyway, one that reminded me of the streets from our childhood. The sun was setting, casting everything in a soft, golden glow. There was an odd calm in the air. And then I saw him.

Babu.

He stood in the middle of the alley, surrounded by a group of barefoot street children. They were laughing, chasing after him as he kicked a worn-out football between them. He looked exactly as I remembered — thin frame, quick feet, that mischievous grin that always got him out of trouble.

I stopped in my tracks, stunned.

My heart raced. My breath caught. I wanted to run to him, to shout his name. But I couldn’t move. I just stood there, overwhelmed by emotion. He saw me. His eyes met mine — calm, kind, filled with recognition.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t wave. He simply smiled.

But it wasn’t just any smile. It was that smile — the one he gave when he was truly happy, when he beat me in a cricket match or made a clever joke that left us both laughing for minutes. It was a smile full of peace.

Then, as the children pulled him away, he turned back just once more, gave me a last look, and disappeared into the soft light with them — still smiling, still playing.

I woke up with tears in my eyes. Not from sadness, but from something deeper — something like release, or maybe even peace.

For eight long years, I had waited. And finally, Babu came. Not with sorrow or drama, but with joy — showing me that he was alright. That wherever he was now, he was still spreading happiness, just like he used to.

That image stayed with me all day — Babu playing with the street children, barefoot in the golden light, carefree and full of life. It felt like a message. Not in words, but in feeling.

He wasn’t lost. He didn't forget about me. He had just waited for the right time.

That evening, I sat alone in our old playground, now quiet, with weeds growing through the cracks. I looked up at the sky and smiled. I whispered, “Thank you, Babu. You finally came.”

Since that dream, he hasn’t returned. But that’s okay. That one moment was enough. It filled the silence of eight years, brought warmth to my cold memory, and told me what I needed to know — that he is still here, not in body, but in spirit.

Maybe he visits other children now, those without families, and gives them the laughter we once shared. Perhaps he has discovered a new calling in a different world, bringing joy to those in need. And maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t meant to dream of him before — because I wasn’t ready to let go of the pain. But now, I can smile when I think of him, not with sorrow, but with gratitude.

Nurul Anam Babu, my brother and best friend, you finally arrived. And now, I know: you never really left.