Do you miss our childhood?
I ask this not expecting an answer, but because the silence between us has grown too loud to ignore.
We used to share the same sky, the same afternoon rain, the same worn-out bench under the old banyan tree. You taught me how to catch fireflies with bare hands; I told you my secrets in a language only we understood. Back then, distance was measured in classrooms, not continents.
Then life pulled us apart—literally. You went west, I went east. Different time zones stole our midnight conversations. Different cultures rewired the way we laugh at jokes. Slowly, your words started to feel like subtitles I had to translate. And mine? They probably landed in your inbox like artifacts from a world you no longer lived in.
I don’t blame the oceans or the years. I blame the quiet erosion of knowing. One day I realized I didn’t know who your new friends are. You didn’t know that I’ve started walking home alone now. We became two parallel lines that never touch—not because of anger, but because of a gentle, unforgivable drifting.
Some say people grow together. I think we grew apart. And that’s the saddest kind of growing—the one that doesn’t make a sound, just leaves a hollow where your voice used to be.
So no, I don’t miss our childhood. I miss the version of me who believed that nothing could ever come between us.
But everything did.