The Summer That Wasn’t

There was a time when I believed summer could fix anything. Maybe it was the way the sun lingered longer, casting golden spells on everything it touched. Or maybe it was because summer always promised escape — from school, from pressure, from routines, from reality. But that one summer, the one we planned for months, never really happened. And yet, it still changed everything.

It was supposed to be the summer of us. Me, Amina, and Fareed — best friends since childhood, bonded by years of shared snacks, secrets, and the same neighborhood streets. We had just graduated high school, full of nervous energy and the kind of excitement that buzzes under your skin like soda bubbles. We had a list — The Summer List — written in blue ink on Fareed’s sketchbook paper. It had everything from bonfire nights to a road trip along the coast, camping under the stars, and watching every meteor shower we could catch.

I remember sitting on Amina’s rooftop in May, all three of us cross-legged, laughing about how many things we’d do, how many places we’d go. “This summer,” Fareed had declared, “will be legendary.”

We didn’t know how fragile time was.

June arrived with heat and hope. We managed one beach day before the first crack appeared. Amina’s father got sick — really sick. The kind of sick that comes with oxygen tanks and hospital visits and whispers behind closed doors. She stopped coming to the group chats. When she did reply, her messages were short: “Can’t. Sorry.” Or “Maybe next week.”

Fareed and I tried to go ahead with some of the plans. We even went to the outdoor cinema one Friday night, but it felt hollow, like pretending to enjoy a party you didn’t want to attend. We saved a seat for her. She never came.

July blurred into hospital corridors and waiting rooms. I visited Amina once, and her face looked older, tired in a way that summer shouldn’t allow. Her hands shook when she poured tea, but her voice didn’t. “Go have fun,” she said. “Don’t wait for me.”

But we did. We waited.

Then Fareed’s brother, Sami, got into a motorbike accident. He survived, but barely. It changed everything. Fareed, always the dreamer, the one who talked about stargazing and hiking and chasing sunrises, started disappearing too. He stayed home more, angry at the world and tired of pretending to smile.

The summer list remained pinned on his corkboard, untouched.

I tried once — just once — to check off something alone. A small hiking trail near our town. I thought it might give me the sense of freedom the list had promised. Instead, I ended up sitting on a rock halfway through, staring at the valley and crying because nothing felt right without them.

By August, I had given up. I spent most days reading old texts and watching our group photos fade into memories. The beach photos, the silly car selfies, the ones from our favorite rooftop café — they all looked like someone else’s life. Someone who got the summer they planned.

But here’s what I didn’t realize then: sometimes, the summer that doesn’t happen teaches you more than the one that does.

I learned how silence could be filled with love — in the way Amina’s mother offered me chai when I visited, even though her eyes looked like they hadn't seen sleep in weeks. I learned how presence could mean more than words — like when Fareed and I sat outside his house for hours without speaking, just watching the sky turn orange and then blue-black, our sadness shared like a quiet song.

And I learned that not all stories need fireworks to be memorable. Some just need truth.

In September, after Amina’s father passed, we gathered again — just the three of us — under that same rooftop. We lit a candle, not for celebration, but for peace. We didn’t talk much. We just sat. And that was enough.

That summer, we didn’t go on road trips. We didn’t camp under stars. We didn’t finish the summer list.

But we grew.

We learned how to hold space for each other. We learned how to be present, even when everything was falling apart. We learned that sometimes, life writes its own plans — and while they may not come with Instagram posts or scrapbook memories, they come with something more lasting: connection.

Now, years later, when people ask me about my favorite summer, I don’t say the one where I went to Italy with my college friends. I don’t say the one filled with bonfires and boat rides.

I say, “The summer that wasn’t.”

Because that was the summer I learned what it meant to be there for someone. To wait, to understand, to let go.

That was the summer we didn’t chase the sun — and yet, somehow, we still found the light.