Life of Cousins

In a small town nestled between hills and fields, lived a large, close-knit family where cousins weren’t just relatives—they were each other’s first best friends. Among them were four: Ayaan, Zara, Hamza, and Noor. Their parents were siblings, and their families lived only a few houses apart. From the earliest days of childhood, they shared every joy, every fight, and every milestone.

Their story began with mud pies and hide-and-seek. During summer vacations, they would gather at their grandparents' home—a simple house with a wide courtyard, shady neem trees, and a swing that creaked with age but carried countless memories. That place became their kingdom.

Ayaan, the eldest, was the self-declared leader. He was always curious, always trying to invent things—once even building a "time machine" from cardboard and kitchen utensils. Zara was his closest rival, smart and sarcastic, always challenging his ideas. Hamza, the peacemaker, loved photography and animals, often disappearing with his camera to capture birds or their neighbor’s cat. Noor, the youngest, was shy but deeply observant. She rarely spoke, but when she did, everyone listened.

As children, their world was small but magical. Monsoon evenings were for cricket in the rain. Winter nights meant bonfires and ghost stories. They built tents with bedsheets and made “secret clubs” with ridiculous rules. Their bond was unbreakable.

But like all stories, change was inevitable.

Years passed. Ayaan left for university in Karachi. Zara’s family moved abroad. Hamza started working with his father in their auto business. Noor remained in the same town, quietly writing poetry that no one yet knew about.

Distance crept in—not just physical, but emotional. The WhatsApp group they once messaged daily turned silent. Birthdays passed with only a message or two. Family functions felt a little emptier.

Then came a wedding.

Their cousin Hira was getting married, and the whole family was gathering again after years. The event became a reunion, a revival of something long buried.

On the first night, Ayaan arrived late, looking taller and more serious. Zara walked in the next morning, elegant and confident, fresh from years in London. Hamza, ever warm, picked them up from the airport. Noor stood quietly at the door, a little nervous, holding her diary in hand.

At first, it was awkward. The jokes didn’t land the same way. Conversations stumbled. But slowly, piece by piece, the old rhythm returned. Ayaan challenged Zara to a game of chess like old times. Hamza brought out his dusty camera and started taking photos again. Noor, for the first time, shared a poem—about cousins, about time, about missing pieces of herself.

One evening, they sneaked away from the wedding festivities and went to their grandparents’ house. Though dusty and unused, it was still standing. The swing still creaked. They sat under the neem tree in silence.

“Do you guys ever miss it?” Noor asked.

Zara smiled. “Every day.”

Ayaan nodded. “I thought we’d never be this close again.”

Hamza added, “We might have changed, but what we had was real. Still is.”

That night, they stayed up talking. About love, heartbreaks, dreams, regrets. They weren’t children anymore, but the bond had evolved—it had matured. The laughs were deeper, the silences more comforting.

From then on, they made a promise. No matter where life took them, they'd meet once a year. Even if only for a weekend.

And they kept that promise.

Over the years, their lives took different paths. Ayaan became an engineer, Zara a writer, Hamza a wildlife photographer, and Noor, finally, published her first poetry book. They faced setbacks—illness in the family, job losses, heartbreaks—but their yearly meetups remained their anchor.

In those reunions, they laughed like children and cried like old friends. They revisited childhood memories, created new ones, and grew stronger as individuals, knowing they had each other.

The life of cousins isn’t just about sharing toys or holidays—it’s about growing up side by side, drifting apart, and still finding your way back. It’s about the comfort of knowing someone remembers your childhood better than you do. Someone who knows where you came from and celebrates who you’ve become.

In a world that’s always moving, where friendships fade and people change, the cousins held on—to each other, to their roots, and to the stories that only they could tell.

Because cousins are the first chapters of our life story. And sometimes, the best ones too.