*November 27th**—Vikram’s birthday. This morning, I drafted a "happy birthday" text, but I didn't send it.
We met as kids at a family gathering. Our childhood was fun; every time we met, it was a blast. We used to see each other at every family event. After a few years, we became serious about our academics, and our paths diverged. Somehow, we lost touch, our worlds became different, and we both moved to separate cities. I can say we may have completely forgotten each other.
Years later, in 2020, the world stood still. Everyone was unsure about what tomorrow would bring, and we all started looking backward. Life was stuck; it was hard to imagine living without social media scrolling. I know the lockdown and the virus changed many lives in different ways. It took lives, created distance between some people, and gave second chances to many others who were looking for them. It cast its own strange spell on all of us.
One day, while I was mindlessly scrolling through Instagram, I happened to like a post. I still remember it was a scenic view of Vizag beach. The post looked interesting, and I opened the account. Knowingly or unknowingly, I ended up liking several other posts on that profile. Later that day, I received a text in my DMs: "Hey," along with a screenshot of the posts I had liked on his account. I opened it and replied, "Hi."
Earlier, while scrolling, I had realized it was my childhood friend, Vikram—I had recognized his childhood picture in one of the posts. I was a little shocked, but at the same time, I felt something different. I stopped checking his profile, but by then, I had already liked many of his pictures.
All day I thought about it: *Should I message him? How should I introduce myself? Does he still remember me? Am I getting too excited about my childhood friend?* But when I received a text from him, all I could type was a simple "Hi."
A while later, he texted back, introducing himself: "Hey Shreya! This is Vikram, your childhood friend! Remember we used to go to the movies with our families? Do you still remember me, or is this an accident?" Seeing that message, I texted him back, "Of course I remembered you! I was just confused about whether *you* remembered me or not."
He saw my text, and I could see he was typing something. Seeing that gave me a bright smile. He texted that, of course, he remembered me and was very happy to connect again. Through his chat, I could sense the excitement he was also going through at that time.
We chatted for a while—it was a long conversation where we both spoke about how life had been over all those years. It felt a little awkward to talk again after so long, but at the same time, it felt incredibly easy and deeply connecting.
From that day on, we talked regularly. One day it would be about childhood memories, another about what was happening now. Sometimes, it would start with sharing a meme or a reel and talking about that, or any other random stuff. Talking with him felt very easy and exciting.
With time, our chats grew longer, shifting from just random stuff to talking about life plans, fears, and reality. We didn't know what we were feeling for each other, but chatting became a daily routine. At that point, I felt our connection was a **beautiful confusion**. He gave me so much space to be vulnerable. It felt comfortable to talk and express myself. It felt too easy to be *just* friendship, but too familiar to be anything else.
After a few months, the lockdown passed. Everything started coming back to reality. Maybe this was the natural ending of the bubble that had just started growing.
Days passed. Long conversations started turning into short replies. The chain of reels and memes began to break. Later, our communication shrank to just reactions to posts. Perhaps this time, our emotions weren't aligned. Maybe, for him, I was just an old friend he appreciated in his life. He still cared.
Later, one day we decided to meet, and in that meeting, I felt that familiar flutter of butterflies in my stomach.
I still remember we were having coffee, and the conversation drifted to family expectations. "'I told them you were a good person, sensible, and had a strong family,' he said, taking a sip of his coffee. 'You were on the list, you know? **One of the viable options.**'" I questioned him, "What list?" He replied it was the list of girls for his marriage proposals.
That single phrase—'one of the viable options'—hit me harder than any rejection. It wasn't a choice driven by passion or unique connection, but by suitability and convenience. In his mind, I was an interchangeable component in his life plan, a reliable piece that could be easily replaced by any other 'good person.' In that moment, the beautiful confusion shattered, leaving only clear, mutual distance. He might not reciprocate. There was a genuine connection between us, but maybe our paths towards it were different, and there is no one wrong in this beautiful short journey.
The true happy ending is the friendship itself, and the self-realization that came from the one-sided feeling. Our connection was a time machine, not a relationship. And sometimes, that's more than enough.
And so, on the morning of his birthday, after contemplating the draft in my phone for an hour, I finally pressed send on the simplest version.
**"Happy birthday, Vikram! Hope you have a great day celebrating."**
The message was sent, without expectation or complication. It was just a note of genuine care, confirming that the beautiful confusion had finally settled into a clear, lasting appreciation.
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