The Last Day in White and Brown

It was a cloudy morning—the kind where the sky hangs heavy and the air feels like it’s holding its breath. On a quiet road outside the university campus, two friends stood side by side, dressed in traditional shalwar kameez. Shehzad wore white; Mudassir, brown. Their clothes, now inked with signatures, messages, and little sketches, had become living souvenirs of a day they both knew they would remember forever.

It was their last day at university.

For four years, Shehzad Ahmad and Muhammad Mudassir had walked these same paths, laughed in the same classrooms, and grown from boys into young men. They had met during orientation week—strangers in a crowded auditorium. Mudassir, who had just walked in late and confused, looked around for a seat, and Shehzad, sitting quietly near the aisle, moved over without a word. That simple gesture sparked a connection that would grow into a lifelong bond.

Where Shehzad was calm, composed, and observant, Mudassir was expressive, energetic, and full of ideas. Shehzad thought before he spoke, while Mudassir often spoke before he thought—and somehow, that contrast worked perfectly. They brought balance to each other.

Their friendship was never forced or loud. It was built on little things: helping each other with assignments, cracking jokes in the back row during boring lectures, and walking home after class talking about life, dreams, and the weirdness of adulthood. When one was low, the other was there. No explanations needed.

But now, standing outside with farewell messages scribbled across their clothes, the finality of this day hit hard. There were messages like “Bestie,” “26/6/2025,” “Good Luck, bro,” and even “GPT? We’re still better!”—all written by friends who had been part of their shared journey. Shehzad looked at Mudassir’s brown kurta and noticed something he’d written earlier, now smudged slightly: “You create GPT, but we are not one.” Mudassir laughed when he noticed it too. “No one’s going to understand that line but us.”

“That’s the point,” Shehzad smiled.

A few other classmates joined them for group photos, some with tears, some with laughter. But Shehzad and Mudassir kept drifting back toward each other—like gravity pulling them into a shared orbit, just like always. It wasn’t just the end of their academic life. It was the closing of a chapter they had written together—one filled with growth, mistakes, resilience, and joy.

As the crowd around the main gate began to thin, the two friends stayed behind, walking one last time down the road that had become so familiar. They passed the cafeteria where they had spent hours sharing snacks and swapping stories. They walked by the old lecture halls where they had crammed for exams and whispered jokes across the room.

Mudassir broke the silence, “Do you think things will change?”

Shehzad looked ahead, thinking for a moment. “Things always change. But not this,” he said, placing a hand over his chest. “Not us.”

They both knew the road ahead would be different. Jobs, responsibilities, distance—life would come at them in ways they couldn’t predict. But this friendship had weathered enough to know how to last. It wasn’t about staying in constant contact. It was about showing up when it mattered. It was about trust, memory, and respect—the kind that doesn’t fade with time.

They stopped to take one last picture—just the two of them, standing tall, tired but proud. No filters. No fake smiles. Just Shehzad and Mudassir, frozen in a moment they’d never want to forget.

As they walked away, the first hint of sunshine pierced through the cloud cover, casting a soft glow on the street ahead.

“New beginning?” Mudassir asked.

“Always,” Shehzad replied.

And with that, two best friends stepped into the next chapter of their lives—not knowing exactly where it would lead, but knowing for sure that they’d always carry each other with them.