Most people make friends for a reason, with silent expectations. Try being a friend without one , selflessly , and you’ll see how heavy the word ‘friend’ truly is.
I still remember the first time I noticed her. It was probably my first presentation in Environmental Science class. I was focused, trying to get through it, when she corrected me on a date. Calmly. Confidently. Like she belonged there, even though it was her very first day.
She had a bandage on her arm, maybe from some recent injury. A red handkerchief in her hand. She wore a frock shalwar, simple, yet something about her stood out.
A few days later, we shared a brief moment outside school. The rain was pouring. We stood under a small shop roof, waiting for our vehicles. I didn’t know where she lived. She turned to me and asked, “Where do you live?”
“Khundoora,” I said.
“What?”
“Khundoora.”
“Andoora?” she asked.
“No. Khundoora.”
It was a short, silly exchange, but for me, it was a memory.
Then came the day I read headlines during the school assembly. I said it would rain. It didn’t.
Later, she came to me, pretending to be serious.
“I’ll file a case against you,” she said.
I looked at her, confused.
“You gave false news. It didn’t rain,” she smiled.
I laughed… that easy, light-hearted banter… it stayed with me. The way she joked, as if we’d known each other far longer than we had.
Then one day, she fell ill.
She didn’t come to school for a few days. And I noticed. Her absence made the class feel emptier. Quieter. And I missed her, more than I expected to.
So I wrote a poem: “The Partial Whorl.”
Because without her, our circle didn’t feel whole.
I sent it to her on WhatsApp.
She replied: “Glad to have a friend like you.”
That reply, simple, honest, meant the world to me. Just the fact that she considered me her friend… it was enough.
We began to build memories. Shared laughs. Light moments. And I loved it.
I loved being around her. I loved being her friend.
Gradually, I fell in love with her.
But not in the way people assume. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t physical. It wasn’t possessive. It was the kind of love that feels like family, like a sibling, like home. Protective. Constant. Quiet.
I knew she loved someone else. And I accepted it. I never saw her in that way , never crossed that line.
Yet still, I found myself loving her, as a friend , a brother, more deeply than I thought possible.
I wrote poems. More than sixty. Some I shared. Most I didn’t. I even dedicated my book to her. It wasn’t about being seen. It was about being sincere.
Every time something happened in her life, even if she didn’t tell me, I’d write. Not to interfere, not to pry… just to let her know I was there. That I cared. But she never really opened up. She never shared much. Never gave me space to know her deeper. And maybe she never wanted to. Maybe she just didn’t see me that way, not even as someone worth keeping close. But I tried. I gave what I could.
For me, friendship was something else.
It still is. I don’t know how others hold on to their friendships, what rules they follow, what limits they draw. But for me… it was more than love. It was a feeling I can’t fully put into words. I just wanted to be there. To stand beside her. To protect her, care for her, do whatever I could, not because I had to, but because I wanted to.
Friendship, to me, was never an agreement. It was a never ending process, like watering a plant every day, even if it never flowers back.
She was confused by me. She used to say, “Don’t take me so seriously.”
She believed I was torturing myself, carrying too much emotion for no reason. She didn’t understand why I care so much about her. She couldn’t read the language of my loyalty.
Once, during Ramadan, when everyone was waiting for the crescent moon, I wrote another poem , saying she was my crescent. That I was waiting for her, because we hadn’t spoken in a long time.
I sent it. And she replied, “Do you need anything from me?”
That… hurt.
Because I didn’t need anything. I only needed to express. Through poetry.
Still, I cherished every piece of her, her words, her presence… even her anger, which she rarely shows anymore. I’ve been living in the world of Cuteness. Every time I speak with her, I feel alive. All my pain fades.
What can I do? I just miss her. I want to spend time with her. I wait, just for a word, a message, a moment. I have so many people to talk to… but not my friend. And none of them have her magic.
I was always honest. I just… loved her.
Not in the way the world assumes, but in the only way I knew how. I wanted to hold on to the friendship. It felt like my duty. My promise.
And to be honest… I never knew that friendship isn’t performed the way I did it. I didn’t know it might feel overwhelming. I didn’t know it could make someone uncomfortable. I didn’t know that what I saw as love, the love of a friend, a brother, could somehow become a burden.
I didn’t even realize that my presence might affect her relationship with the one she loved. But one day… it happened. I found out they had fought because of me. He thought something was wrong between us, that there was something more, when there wasn’t. That day… she behaved differently. Her words. Her tone. Her distance. It cut deep. I was wounded, not because I was blamed, but because I didn’t understand how something so pure from my side could turn into something so painful.
But I never meant harm. I never wanted to take anything. I never wanted to be “more.” I just wanted to be her friend.
The kind of friend the world doesn’t offer often. And truthfully… no one has really understood my friendship. Nobody has understood my thoughts, the way I feel things. Not her. Not others. Not even me, sometimes. Because it’s hard to describe. It doesn’t fit in categories or definitions.
To me, she isn’t just a person. She’s a Window. A spring I wait for. A tree I’d rest under. She is oxygen, unseen, but essential. She’s the poem I never finish.
And still… I never gave up. I didn’t walk away. I still love her. I still care. I’m still here. And I always will be. Because I believe… Even if I leave this world without her ever fully understanding me. If one day… she comes to my grave, Just to stand there, quietly.
That moment will feel like spring has arrived. That… will be my heaven.
Because I was just a friend.
And for me, That was always enough.
Sometimes, even I don’t understand what kind of person God has made me. What kind of concept of friendship He has planted in me. It’s different… maybe too different. But all of this, it was only friendship. Just friendship. I was never interested in anything else. No hidden motives. No secret hopes. I simply wanted to be there, as a friend, nothing more. I am a friend.
