Between Us, a Thousand Secrets",,,,,

We met under the crooked branches of the old neem tree, the one that leaned toward the river like it knew all our secrets. It was the summer before middle school, and I was the new boy on the block. My name was Ali, and I had just moved to the sleepy street with my mother, who carried sorrow in her eyes like it was a secret too heavy to speak of.

That’s when I first saw them—Sara and Noor—two girls with windblown hair, scraped knees, and eyes that gleamed with curiosity. They had been friends since birth, living just two houses apart, and they shared everything—books, dreams, fears, and now, a stranger named Ali.

“Do you play cricket?” Noor asked on the second day, her arms crossed and eyes skeptical.

“Only if you bowl straight,” I replied.

That’s how it began.

We became the trio that wandered from one side of the neighborhood to the other, building forts out of cardboard, collecting fireflies in glass jars, and racing through alleyways like we were trying to outrun time. Every evening, we met under the neem tree, each bringing something—an idea, a complaint, a secret.

But things started to change the summer we turned fifteen.

It wasn’t abrupt—more like the slow peeling of wallpaper, unnoticed until the wall looked bare.

Sara began to bring her diary, guarded tightly in her schoolbag. Noor’s questions grew quieter, more hesitant. And I—well, I started noticing the way Sara’s laughter lingered longer when it was directed at me.

We were growing up, and with that came new boundaries. Suddenly, Noor seemed annoyed if Sara and I laughed too long at an inside joke. I caught her looking away when I mentioned spending time with Sara after school. And Sara, who used to climb trees and beat me at video games, now spent more time looking in mirrors and writing poetry in the margins of her textbooks.

One evening, I arrived at the neem tree alone. I waited, watching the sky turn from gold to grey, until footsteps broke the silence.

It was Noor.

“Where’s Sara?” I asked.

“She’s not coming,” she replied, sitting beside me but not meeting my gaze.

We sat in silence, the kind that presses on your chest.

“You like her, don’t you?” Noor finally asked.

I froze. It was the kind of question you pretend not to hear, but can’t unhear.

“I—maybe,” I said. “I don’t know.”

“She likes you too,” she whispered, then smiled sadly. “But it won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Because we were never meant to be a story of love triangles or broken friendships,” she said. “We were supposed to be more than that.”

I didn’t know what to say. I thought of all the summers, all the inside jokes, all the shared fears. How do you choose between two people who shaped your childhood?

That summer ended with rain—thick, heavy, unrelenting. We didn’t meet under the tree for weeks. Sara stopped responding to my texts. Noor became a stranger in the hallways at school.

Years passed.

We drifted, as people do. I focused on school, then college, then a career. The neem tree, once the center of our universe, stood forgotten in my memories—until I returned to my old neighborhood one winter break.

It hadn’t changed much. The bakery still sold dry bread and sweet tea. The uncle at the corner store still argued over five rupees. And the neem tree still stood, older now, but familiar.

I didn’t expect to see anyone. But as I approached the tree, I saw two figures.

It was them—Sara and Noor.

Time had been kind to them. They smiled when they saw me, as if no time had passed.

We sat under the neem tree, just like we used to.

“I heard you became a writer,” Sara said.

“I write things I’m afraid to say,” I replied.

Noor laughed. “So, a thousand secrets?”

“Exactly that.”

We sat in silence for a moment, not out of discomfort, but out of reverence—for what we had, what we lost, and what still remained.

“I missed this,” Sara said quietly.

“Me too,” Noor added.

“So did I,” I said.

We talked until the stars came out. And though the years had changed us, something deeper remained untouched.

We didn’t talk about old crushes, broken hearts, or missed chances. We didn’t need to. Some stories are meant to end quietly, without dramatic conclusions.

Some stories are about beginnings that never needed endings.

Author's Note:

Not every friendship survives adolescence. But some—the rare, tender ones—can weather silence, distance, and time. Between Us, a Thousand Secrets is a story of growing up, growing apart, and finding the courage to reconnect