Never a Couple
“Twenty hours to go. And you’re leaving this city for your college,” I told her, staring at the sea in front of us.
“I will miss having roasted peanuts with you almost every afternoon,” she said, cracking the shell of another peanut.
“Liar. I know you will get a boyfriend there. Delhi, after all,” I slapped her palm softly, and the two halves of the peanut shell fell from her hands onto the sand before us.
“Yes, maybe.” she shrugged.
“Can I ask you something?” I asked.
She said nothing. Because every time I have asked her if I could ask her something, it has always been the same old question.
“Why don’t you be my girlfriend? Haven’t we been closest friends since class four?” I asked, noisily munching a peanut.
“We have. But we won’t be a couple. I have told you time and again,” she said, gesturing me to open my mouth so she could pop in a peanut right into my throat. She missed.
“Fine, never a couple.” I sighed. She took a pinch of sand from the ‘I Will Miss You’ that I had written on the sand about an hour ago, and collected it in one of the halves of the peanut shell that had just fallen from her hand. I took the other half, and covered the one in which she kept the sand.
I rested my head on her shoulder, and we said nothing else to each other. Because in that silence, we knew we had made our decision. After nine long years.
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