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.

 


Image Source: flickr.com


 

 


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