The Summer That Never Turned Out the Way It Was Supposed To

This was supposed to be the summer.

The one with beach trips, late-night bike rides, and memories stitched together like fairy lights in July. We had it all planned—me, Asha, and Imran. Every detail scribbled in the back of Asha’s math notebook: “Summer of Freedom,” we called it.

The last summer before high school became a reality. Before life got complicated.

But life, it seems, never reads the plans we write.

The first week started perfectly. We stayed out until the stars came out, counting them like wishes. We had coconut ice cream at the dusty roadside stall, the one with the flickering bulb and the radio that only played 90s songs. Imran brought a film camera and told us, “Let’s capture everything.”

He never finished the roll.

On the tenth day, Asha’s grandmother fell seriously ill. Her family packed their bags in one night and left for Kerala. Just like that, she was gone. “I’ll be back in a week,” she texted.

She wasn’t.

Then came the storm.

A real one.

The kind that ruins picnics, floods alleys, and traps you inside with nothing but old books and a restless heart. It rained for two straight weeks. The power went out three times. Imran stopped replying to messages.

At first, I thought he was just busy.

Then I saw his post: “Taking a break from everything. Needed it.”

No caption. No explanation.

Just a blurry photo of his window, rain sliding down like tears.

I continued to go through our summer list anyway.

Alone.

I went to the library and checked out the poetry book Asha had circled. Sat at the park bench where Imran once played guitar (badly). I tried to fill the silence, but it was like swimming in an ocean that forgot how to echo.

I thought summer was supposed to taste like laughter.

But that year, it tasted like waiting.

When school reopened, Asha never came back.

Her family moved. Just like that.

Imran did. He smiled at me once in the hallway, but it was a distant kind of smile. Like we both remembered something we weren’t ready to talk about.

I kept the math notebook. “Summer of Freedom” is still written in bubble letters, now smudged by time and maybe a few tears I won’t admit to.

Here’s what I learned:

Some summers don’t turn out the way they’re supposed to.

But that doesn’t mean they don’t matter.

Even the broken ones teach you something.

That people leave. Storms come.

Plans fall apart.

But memories don’t disappear—they just change shape.

Sometimes, a quiet summer becomes the one that grows you the most.

Even if it never turned out the way it was supposed, this summer was supposed to be the best one yet. We had big plans for beach trips, late-night bike rides, and memories that would sparkle like fairy lights in July. Asha, Imran, and I even jotted everything down in the back of Asha’s math notebook and called it the “Summer of Freedom.

It was our last summer before high school kicked in and life got more complicated.

At first, everything went smoothly. We stayed out late and stared at the stars, counting them like wishes. We treated ourselves to coconut ice cream from this little roadside spot with a flickering light and a radio that only played '90s songs. Imran brought his film camera, excited to snap pictures of it all. But he never finished the film roll.

Then, on the tenth day, Asha got some rough news—her grandma was sick. Her family packed up super fast and dashed off to Kerala. Just like that, she was gone. Asha texted me, “I’ll be back in a week.” But she never came back.

After that, a serious storm hit. You know, the kind that ruins any outdoor plans and keeps you cooped up inside, surrounded by old books and a restless mind. It rained for two weeks straight, and we lost power three times. Imran stopped replying to my texts, and I figured he was just busy. But then I saw his post: “Taking a break from everything. Needed it.” No explanation, just a blurry pic of raindrops running down his window like tears.

Even with all that, I tried to check off items on our summer list by myself. I went to the library and grabbed the poetry book Asha had marked. I sat on the park bench where Imran used to play guitar, trying to fill the quiet, but it felt like swimming in an ocean that had forgotten how to make waves.

I always thought summer would be filled with laughter. But that year, it felt more about waiting.

When school started up again, Asha wasn’t there. Her family had moved away. Imran showed up again, too. He smiled at me in the hallway, but it was distant, like we both remembered something we weren’t quite ready to talk about.

I hung onto that math notebook, where “Summer of Freedom” was still written in bright letters, now faded and a bit smudged, maybe from a few tears I won’t admit to.

What did I learn from all this? Not every summer goes the way you expect, but that doesn’t make it less meaningful. Even the summers that seem broken can teach you something. People leave, storms happen, and plans fall apart.

But memories don’t just vanish—they change into something different. Sometimes, the quiet summers help you grow the most, even if they don't turn out the way you thought they would. This summer was meant to be special. The kind filled with beach outings, late-night bike rides, and memories that shimmer like fairy lights in July. Asha, Imran, and I had everything mapped out, written down in the back of Asha’s math notebook. We called it the “Summer of Freedom.”

It was the last summer before high school started—before life got a lot more complicated.

At first, everything went as planned. We stayed out late, counting stars like wishes. We enjoyed coconut ice cream from a little roadside stall that had a flickering bulb and a radio that only played songs from the 90s. Imran even brought along a film camera, eager to capture every moment. But he never finished the roll of film. Then, about a week in, Asha’s grandma fell seriously ill. Her family rushed to Kerala, packing their bags in a single night. Asha texted me, “I’ll be back in a week.” But she never returned. Soon after, a real storm hit. The kind that ruins picnics, floods streets, and keeps you indoors with nothing but old books and restless thoughts. It rained for two weeks straight. We lost power three times, and then Imran stopped replying to messages. At first, I thought he was just busy. But then I saw his post: “Taking a break from everything. Needed it.” It had no explanation—just a blurry photo of rain running down his window like tears. Despite everything, I decided to keep going through our summer list on my own. I visited the library to check out the poetry book Asha had marked. I sat on the park bench where Imran used to play guitar, trying to fill the silence, but it felt like swimming in an ocean that was too quiet. I always thought summer was supposed to be full of laughter. But that year, it felt more like waiting. When school started up again, Asha was gone. Her family had moved away, just like that. Imran came back, too. He smiled at me once in the hallway, but it felt distant, as if we both remembered something we weren’t ready to discuss. I kept that math notebook, with “Summer of Freedom” still written in colorful letters, now faded and smudged, stained by time and maybe a few tears I won’t admit to. Here’s what I learned: some summers don’t turn out how you expect. But that doesn't mean they aren’t important. Even those imperfect summers teach you something valuable. People come and go. Storms may arrive unexpectedly. Plans can fall apart. But memories don’t fade; they just change form. Sometimes, a quiet summer turns out to be the one that helps you grow the most, even if it wasn’t what you originally hoped for