The childhood friend I no longer recognize

I remember the first time I met Arjun. We were five years old, standing in the school playground, eyeing each other warily. He had a slingshot in one hand and a mischievous grin on his face. I had a book tucked under my arm and a curiosity that couldn’t be contained. Somehow, despite our differences, we became inseparable.

We built castles in the sandpit, raced each other to the school gates, and whispered secrets under the banyan tree near our homes. Our childhood was a blur of scraped knees, stolen mangoes, and laughter so loud it echoed through the narrow lanes of our small town. He was the wild spark, and I was the steady flame.

But time, as it always does, had other plans.

### **The First Signs of Change**

The shift was gradual. At fourteen, Arjun became obsessed with fitting in. He traded his slingshot for trendy sneakers and his mischievous grin for a practiced smirk. The boy who once climbed trees to pluck raw mangoes now refused to be seen eating anything but fast food.

At first, I dismissed it as a phase. But then came the silences. The missed calls. The sudden absence from our usual haunts. I would find him with a new crowd—louder, bolder, more reckless. They didn’t talk about books or dreams. They talked about power, money, and things that felt alien to me.

One evening, I confronted him outside his house. “You don’t even talk to me anymore,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

He looked at me, and for the first time, I saw something unfamiliar in his eyes—something cold. “People change,” he shrugged. “Maybe you should too.”

The Stranger in His Eyes

By the time we were eighteen, Arjun was a ghost of the boy I once knew. He skipped college lectures, hung around in places our younger selves would’ve feared, and spoke with an edge that made my stomach twist.

One day, I ran into him at a local tea stall. He was leaning against his motorcycle, laughing with his new friends. I hesitated before calling his name. He turned, and for a brief moment, I thought I saw a flicker of recognition.

“What do you want?” he asked.

I wanted to tell him I missed him. That I still remembered the boy who cried when he lost his first pet, the boy who swore we'd always be there for each other. Instead, I just shook my head and walked away.

I didn’t look back. Maybe because I already knew—he wouldn’t be looking back either.

We built castles in the sandpit, raced each other to the school gates, and whispered secrets under the banyan tree near our homes. Our childhood was a blur of scraped knees, stolen mangoes, and laughter so loud it echoed through the narrow lanes of our small town. He was the wild spark, and I was the steady flame.

One day, I ran into him at a local tea stall. He was leaning against his motorcycle, laughing with his new friends. I hesitated before calling his name. He turned, and for a brief moment, I thought I saw a flicker of recognition.

We built castles in the sandpit, raced each other to the school gates, and whispered secrets under the banyan tree near our homes. Our childhood was a blur of scraped knees, stolen mangoes, and laughter so loud it echoed through the narrow lanes of our small town. He was the wild spark, and I was the steady flame.

But time, as it always does, had other plans.

The shift was gradual. At fourteen, Arjun became obsessed with fitting in. He traded his slingshot for trendy sneakers and his mischievous grin for a practiced smirk.