The skies cracked open in June, releasing the first monsoon rain like a long-held breath. The school campus, parched and pale for weeks, transformed overnight into a breathing, green wilderness. Puddles bloomed along the stone paths. Windows fogged up. Students raced between classrooms with bags over their heads and wet shoes squelching against the floor.
For Amrita and Tushar, it marked something more than just a change in season.
It had been a month since the misunderstanding — the whispers, the distance, the apology under the cycle shed. Since then, they had returned to their bench under the gulmohar, slower this time. Not rushing to reclaim what was lost, but carefully stitching it back together, thread by thread.
Rain made everything feel raw and honest. The world smelled of mud and longing. And perhaps that's why Amrita finally said it one afternoon, when the two of them sat watching droplets roll down the leaves like tiny dancers.
"I'm scared of growing up," she said quietly.
Tushar glanced at her. She wasn't looking at him — just straight ahead, eyes fixed on the glistening bark of the gulmohar.
"Everyone keeps saying these are the best years of our life," she continued. "But what if they're not? What if it gets lonelier from here?"
He was quiet for a moment, then said, "I used to think the same thing. That maybe after school, we'd drift. That you'd go somewhere far to write books, and I'd dive into oceans no one's heard of. And we'd become strangers again."
She smiled sadly. "Like we once were."
"But I don't think that anymore," he added. "Because of what you said the day we made up."
Amrita turned to him, eyebrows raised.
"You said friendship isn't about needing explanations. It's about belief," he reminded her. "So I've decided to believe — in us. That we'll find each other again, even if we get lost."
She blinked. For once, her sharp tongue found no clever reply. Instead, she reached into her bag and pulled out a small notebook — not the old one, but a new one with a rain-streaked cover.
"I started this a week ago," she said. "It's called Thread by Gold."
He stared at the title. "Why?"
"Because that's what this friendship feels like. Not loud. Not easy. But strong — like a golden thread running quietly through everything, even when we can't see it."
Tushar took the notebook from her hands, flipping through pages filled with snippets of memories: the bench, the neem tree, the debate, the silence, the fight. There were small drawings — of their pebbles, of a school bus window, of a swing under a cloudy sky.
"It's beautiful," he said, voice soft.
"It's just the beginning," she replied. "I thought we could fill it together."
So they began. Right there, under the rain-drenched gulmohar.
They wrote stories — some funny, some sad. They made up future letters to each other, imagining what they'd say five years from now. They drew the cities they might live in, the cafes they'd meet at, the long train rides they'd take when life felt too heavy.
It became their ritual — every Friday after school, they met under the tree, come rain or sun. The notebook grew thicker, heavier with memories and hopes.
On the last day before summer break, they sat in the same spot as thunder rumbled far away.
"I'll be gone for a month," Tushar said. "Visiting relatives in Kerala. No phone signal where we're going."
Amrita nodded. "I'll keep the book safe."
Before they parted, she tore out a blank page and handed him a pen.
"Write me a promise," she said.
He wrote:
No matter where we go, no matter who we become, I'll find you again — under a tree, in the rain, with a heart full of stories.
She read it silently, folded the paper, and slipped it into her shirt pocket.
And as they stood there, the rain beginning to fall again in fat, warm drops, she said, "That's all I need."
Moral: Real friendship isn't about daily presence — it's about enduring connection, a quiet promise to return, even when the roads diverge.