The sun rose softer that morning, like even it knew something was ending.
I woke before the alarm, before the street dogs barked, before my mother called out for breakfast. The house was silent. Time had slowed, respectfully.
This was it. The last day. The final chapter of this strange, sacred return.
Hari was already waiting outside my gate, leaning against his cycle. No teasing grin today. Just a nod.
We didn't talk much as we rode through the neighborhood. Everything looked crisper — the cracks in the walls, the rust on shop shutters, the way old men stirred their tea like clockwork. I was noticing things I hadn't in years. Like I wouldn't get another chance.
We ended up at our school. Empty — it was a Sunday.
We broke in easily; the back gate had never locked properly. We walked past our old classrooms, peered into windows like ghosts revisiting their own lives. The last row in Class 10B still had the carved initials we made during exams. I ran my fingers over them.
"Remember how I cried during the farewell?" Hari said.
"You told everyone it was the sun in your eye."
He chuckled. "I lied a lot back then. Mostly to myself."
We made our way to the terrace, our final box unchecked.
The view hadn't changed. Same wide sky. Same rooftop tanks. Same rusted rods poking out like broken bones.
We sat side by side, legs dangling over the edge, the silence thick with memory.
"I used to wonder what it would be like if we'd stayed friends," he said suddenly. "Like, if we'd just… held on."
I didn't answer.
Because I remembered the last time we stood on this terrace. A fight. A word too sharp. Pride louder than love. We walked away, and didn't look back.
Until now.
"You know," I said slowly, "the worst part wasn't that we stopped talking. It's that I got so used to your absence."
He looked at me. "But you came back."
"Maybe I never left."
The wind carried our words off the edge. Into the sky. Maybe someone else would catch them one day.
We spent the rest of the day doing nothing special — and that made it perfect.
We visited the chai shop near the temple. The vendor still remembered us and gave an extra biscuit for free.
We lay under the banyan tree, watching kids fly kites with reckless joy.
We bought ice lollies and made our tongues red.
Every moment, I tucked away like a letter I'd one day re-read.
As sunset bled into the sky, we walked home slowly.
Outside his gate, Hari stopped.
"I don't know what tomorrow looks like," he said.
"Maybe it won't come," I replied. "Not like this."
"Then let's not waste tonight."
We stood there, no handshake, no hug. Just understanding. Just... still us.
I returned home. My mom was setting the dinner plates, humming an old song.
I watched her. Every move, every breath. Knowing it might be the last.
That night, I lay in bed, wide awake.
No buzzing phone. No regrets. No noise.
Just silence.
And then, slowly, sleep.
Not the kind that escapes — but the kind that ends something gently.
When I opened my eyes again, I didn't know where I'd be.
But I knew I had lived the last day right.