One Day’s Encounter, A Lifetime Memory

It was one of those late-winter mornings in Dhaka when the air still clung to the cold but the sun tried its best to convince you otherwise. I remember standing at the arrival gate of the airport, my fingers twitching nervously around the coffee cup I hadn’t really been drinking from.

I was about to see Ayaan after six long years.

We grew up on the same lane, in houses so close you could hear each other’s mothers calling for dinner. Our friendship had been the kind that didn’t need words all the time—we just got each other. We shared childhood secrets, teen angst, and dreams too big for the narrow alleys we called home.

Then one day, he left.

No warning. Just, “Baba got a job in Toronto. We’re flying out next week.” I remember forcing a smile, pretending I wasn’t crushed. We promised to stay in touch. And we tried. But life got in the way—college, new friends, time zones, and the slow drift of silence.

And now, after all these years, he was back. For three days.

The glass doors slid open, and there he was. Taller, more filled out, but the same curious eyes. His smile was instant, familiar, like sunlight after days of rain.

“Tania!” he said, arms wide open.

I hugged him before I could think twice. He felt real, warm, like something I’d only imagined on long nights.

“You haven’t changed,” he said, pulling back, eyes scanning my face.

“You have,” I teased. “You look... Canadian.”

We laughed, and just like that, the years didn’t feel so heavy.

We went to that tiny café across from the airport. Nothing fancy, just chipped cups and greasy plates, but it didn’t matter. We talked non-stop—about old friends, our parents, how weird it was to be adults now. But under all that chatter, there was something neither of us was saying.

The next two days passed in a blur. We visited all the places that had once meant everything—the park where we used to race our bicycles, the bookstore with the creaky wooden floorboards, the tea stall with the old man who still remembered Ayaan’s love for extra sugar.

It felt like walking through a memory, together.

One night, we climbed up to my rooftop—the same one where we used to lie side by side, naming stars and dreaming ridiculous dreams. The city had changed, buildings taller, lights brighter. But up there, it was just us again.

“Ever wonder what would’ve happened if you hadn’t left?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

He was quiet for a long time. “Yeah. A lot.”

I looked at him. The wind played with his hair, and his eyes weren’t just thoughtful—they were somewhere else. Maybe back in time. Maybe wondering the same thing I always had.

“I used to think,” he said slowly, “that maybe, if I’d stayed, you and I…”

His voice trailed off. He didn’t need to finish.

“I thought that too,” I admitted, heart pounding in my ears.

We sat in silence after that. Not uncomfortable. Just... full.

On his last day, we met for breakfast. It felt rushed, like we were both pretending it was just another morning. He was flying out in a few hours.

“I’m really glad I came,” he said as we stood outside the café, traffic swirling around us. “Not just for the trip. For you.”

I smiled, even though my throat felt tight. “Same here.”

At the airport, we hugged again. This one lingered.

As he turned toward the gates, he paused. “Tania?”

I looked up.

“If things were different…”

I nodded. “I know.”

And then he smiled—that smile that had once meant the world to me—and walked away.

I didn’t cry. Not right then. But on the way home, every song on the radio sounded like a goodbye.

Some people walk into your life and stay. Some come back, even just for a little while, and remind you of who you were—who you could’ve been. Ayaan was both.

He was a memory I never let go of. And now, I had one more to hold onto.

Just one visit.

Three days.

A lifetime of meaning.