There were so many papers and books on the table, and many rolled-up papers under it. Unwashed dishes sat in the sink. Her expression was gloomy as she kept writing, head bowed low. Her husband looked at her with annoyance and said coldly,
"I'm leaving. I might not come back for lunch."
She didn't lift her head, replying hurriedly,
"Okay, okay. Be safe. Goodbye."
He glanced at her one last time, then walked out and closed the door behind him.
When she finally raised her head, she looked at the closed door and let out a sigh. Then her eyes drifted to the dirty dishes. Frowning, she muttered,
"I should hurry up."
But instead of getting up, she continued writing.
Moments later, she began searching through the piles of books, unable to find what she was looking for. She stood up and walked to the bookshelf, pulling out one book, then pushing another aside. During this act, something fell from the shelf with a loud thud, a noise loud enough to shatter the house's annoying silence and jolt the woman back into the real world.
She stared at the fallen object. It was a red leather journal. She picked it up and opened the first page.
"For my greenest autumn flower," it read.
She paused. She remembered who used to call her that.
One page after another, she turned them. They were filled with poems—poems her friend had written for her back in the day. Her eyes grew misty as she murmured the verses softly to herself. Every word was soaked in sweetness, written with a heart full of affection.
It had been a long time since she last spoke to her friend or even replied to her messages. Somewhere, between life's rush and the passing of time, the warmth had worn thin.
After the poems, the journal held a few pages of shared memories written from a time when life hadn't yet burdened them with such busyness. On the final page, her friend had written:
"From your friend.
To my best friend."
She touched her name and smiled sadly, thinking,
"Was it life that made me so busy... or did I simply stop making you my priority?"
She was about to close the journal when she felt there was one more page hidden under the back cover. She opened it, and her guess was right. One last message was written there:
"All my words and my poems belong to you,
Because I wrote them all because of you."
She couldn't hold her tears anymore. They ran down her cheeks slowly as she held the journal close to her heart.
This was her birthday gift from her friend, seven years ago.
She had never noticed this last page before, nor the feelings tucked into those words.
Her friend used to joke,
"I'm your friend, but you're my best friend."
She never truly understood it back then.
But now... now she did.
When you pull someone out from everyone else and place them above all, that feeling isn't ordinary.
It's rare. It's real.
She stood up, walked to the table, and placed the red journal down gently.
Then, she picked up her phone and scrolled through her contacts.
The last time they spoke on the phone was two years ago.
She felt a flicker of nervousness.
What if she had changed her number?
What if she was angry for being ignored after that last message?
Still... she wanted to try.
She needed to try.
Her friend had always been the one trying, reaching out, holding their bond together.
Now it was her turn.
She hit the call button. The dial tone rang.
Her heart pounded.
What if she treated her like a stranger? What should she say?
The call kept ringing. Her nerves tangled even more.
Then...
A familiar voice. A familiar warmth.
"Yes?"
She said softly,
"Hello… is that you?"
Her friend replied with mock seriousness,
"No, it's not me. I died long ago. Who are you calling? Do I know you? Have we met before?"
She couldn't help but smile.
"Shut up."
Her friend burst out laughing.
"You're still as respectful as ever."
She smirked,
"And you're still talking nonsense as ever."
"Nonsense is a big part of life," her friend said. "Didn't it make you too busy to remember your friend after all, her hair turned grey waiting for you?"
She knew she was being mocked, but answered warmly,
"You're right. But today, all that busy nonsense reminded me of what I miss."
Her friend paused.
"And what do you miss?"
She said softly,
"You. And the way we used to be."
A few seconds of silence passed. Then her friend said,
"You've poked a hole in my heart. Why are you so emotional now? Caught a cold?"
She laughed,
"No, I'm just really busy. I don't have time to catch a cold… But am I not allowed to miss you?"
Her friend answered proudly,
"Of course you're allowed. Who can't miss me? … Are you okay? Busy with what? Can I help with anything?"
"I have a report due tomorrow that I haven't finished yet, the dishes are still unwashed, the clothes are piling up, and I should have ironed them an hour ago… My house is a complete mess."
Her eyes scanned the chaos around her. Every corner of her home looked like it needed help.
Her friend jumped in,
"Okay, okay, stop! Do you want me to give you one more mess?"
She blinked, confused.
"What?"
Her friend laughed,
"Me. I'm the mess."
Her face lit up.
"Can you come?"
"Why not?" her friend replied. "Actually… I'm nearby. I might be there in half an hour."
She smiled, her heart feeling lighter.
"Then I'll wait for you. Drive safe."
She looked at the red journal and smiled, her eyes gently curving.
"Speaking with you always feels like starting right where we left off."
She began writing again—but this time, her face was no longer gloomy.
Less than half an hour later, the doorbell rang.
She stood up happily, though facing her friend again after so long still made her a little nervous.
She opened the door. Her friend stood there with a big smile, both arms full of things.
"Hi... come, come! Take these already. My hands are about to break!" her friend said hurriedly.
The things weren't heavy—it was just chips, cakes, and a few snacks.
She quickly took them and replied, "Hi... Why did you bring all this?"
Her friend grinned and said jokingly,
"We should hand them out to the neighbourhood. It's our reunion party!"
They both laughed and stepped inside.
Her friend looked around and smiled brightly.
"What a mess. It looks like a tornado passed through here... Young miss, how did you even survive?"
She touched her head awkwardly.
"I ignored it."
Her friend immediately started opening windows, moving around the space, asking about her well-being without pause
like a little ball of light bouncing everywhere, filling the room with warmth and energy.
Her friend asked,
"Where's your husband?"
She arranged the snacks on the kitchen table and answered after a slight pause,
"He… he's gone to work. Might not come back for lunch."
Her friend raised an eyebrow.
"Might not?"
She let out a sigh.
"He's been a little cold lately. He doesn't want me to be this busy… but isn't all of this for our life?"
Her friend began washing the dishes.
"Where are your dishwashing gloves…? Oh—found them."
Then she added playfully,
"Maybe your busyness isn't the only thing he's upset about. If you've been ignoring him like you've been ignoring this house—well, may God help him."
She pouted.
"But I'm doing my best."
Her friend nodded.
"Of course you are. My good friend. But listen—dishes don't care if they sit in the sink or the cabinet. Your husband, on the other hand, is a human being. He needs attention. He needs your sweet words. Unless not treated as a dish. "
She looked at her gently.
"You kept waving him away in your busyness. You didn't mean to, but… You neglected him. And I think now he's not mad at you, not even at your hard work. He's upset with himself… because he couldn't get your attention."
She stopped collecting clothes around the room.
"But... but he didn't say anything."
Her friend replied,
"Maybe he's not good with words. By the way—how many people are you feeding here? Why are all these dishes dirty?"
She shoved the clothes into the washing machine, raised her head, and responded to the first part.
"I'm not good with words either... Wait, what did you just say?"
Her friend grinned and said playfully,
"Nothing. I said you should eat more—because apparently, you didn't dirty a single dish."
She laughed,
"Are you mocking me again?"
Her friend answered with mock seriousness,
"Who would dare mock you? If someone did, I'd roast her in a poem."
She smiled.
"Then you should roast yourself. By the way, are you still writing poetry?"
Her friend answered calmly,
"I haven't had time since my last published book."
Her eyes widened with surprise.
"Really?! You published a book?"
Her friend burst out laughing.
"No, I'm joking—"
Before she could finish, a cleaning towel smacked her in the face.
"How dare you deceive me!" she shouted.
Her friend shouted back, laughing,
"Stop, you violent woman! Let me finish my sentence first!"
She said, half annoyed,
"Who's going to listen to your nonsense?"
Her friend laughed,
"You, of course! Weren't you the one who missed my nonsense the most? And hey—I didn't deceive you. I collected all my poems in a journal and gave it to you for your birthday. Doesn't that count as my published book?"
She smirked proudly,
"Nope, doesn't count. All the writing and poems in there belong to me."
Her friend paused for a second… then burst out laughing.
"Ah—so you did read the last page! When did you find it? Judging by your tiny brain, I thought it would take at least two more years!"
She replied while mopping the floor,
"Don't you keep saying in your poems how smart I am? How beautiful I am?"
Her friend, drying the sink, lifted her chin proudly.
"We're writers, we can make tiny rocks sparkle like gold."
She shook her head,
"You still haven't learned to say two serious words in a row."
Her friend grinned,
"Why not? I have learned. Right now, I'm busy preparing supplements for you to make a special dinner for your husband."
She asked quietly,
"Will that be enough? Should I say something, too?"
Her friend replied gently,
"Yes, it will be enough. If his coldness came from feeling ignored… a little real warmth would fix it."
She held herself steady on the mop and said softly,
"Okay… I'll make his favourite."
Her friend slipped right back into her joking tone,
"And of course, you can read one of my poems to him. My words can melt ice mountains and crack open the hardest hearts."
She smiled, shaking her head as she resumed mopping.
"Here we go again…"
They cleaned the entire house, laughing, chatting, and teasing each other the whole time.
Now, the only thing left was the report.
Her friend sat down at the table, where books and papers were scattered everywhere. She began organising them, putting the books and documents in neat piles. Then, her eyes landed on the red journal. They lit up.
"My poems!" she said excitedly.
Another voice came from behind.
"They're mine, not yours."
She walked over, carrying bowls filled with chips and snacks.
Her friend turned to her with an annoyed look.
"Why did you dirty two bowls? Who's going to wash them after this? Didn't you mix both bags of chips? I told you, I don't eat the spicy ones! And you used the red bowl too. The red bowl is mine! And why did you roll up all these beautiful papers? Do you know how many trees died to give you this paper?"
She replied softly,
"Are you starting to order people around now?"
Then added with a light smile,
"Don't worry, I'll wash them myself. And about the papers… my brain wasn't working back then. Don't mind me ."
Her friend replied with a serious face,
"I'm not blaming you. It's not your fault. God didn't give you one in the first place."
She had been smiling at the first part but froze at the second.
She sat beside her friend, placed the bowls down, and smacked her lightly.
"There you go again—from calling me small-brained to claiming God skipped me completely! Are you tired of living?"
Her friend was under her hand, laughing, raising her arms in mock surrender.
"Okay, okay! I'm sorry! Have mercy, wild woman!"
They both burst into laughter.
They finished the report easily and completely.
This wasn't the first time they had worked on one together.
Back in the day, she would always show up with a worried look, not knowing where to start or what to do
And her friend, somehow, would always make even the hardest work feel lighter than it looked.
They always finished it in time.
The table was neat now, the pencil resting on top of a stack of papers. Two empty bowls sat nearby.
Her friend glanced at the clock and said softly,
"It's time to go."
A wave of emotion rose in her chest. She wanted more time, just a little more—but she knew her friend had her own life too.
She took a breath.
"You made today special. I was so happy… Thank you so much, my friend. You've always been there when I needed you most. You never forgot me."
Her voice trembled.
"I know I haven't been a good friend, always busy, forgetting to message back, acting like a stranger sometimes… but there's one thing I want you to know."
She reached out and held her friend's hand, eyes misty.
"You're not just my friend. You're my best friend. You always have been, and you always will be. There's no one in my heart like you. I promise—I'll never lose you again."
Her friend looked down at their joined hands, her voice soft.
"Actually… the one who should be thanking someone is me."
She smiled, but her eyes were tender.
"When you called and we met again, I was nervous. I wondered if you were still the same person I used to know. But you were. You always are."
She paused, then added,
"You remind me of a Chinese saying, 'When I first met you, it felt like an old friend returning"
She continued,
"First time I met, I had the same feeling. You never felt like a stranger to me. I always like to be part of your days… but now that I know I still have a place in your heart, that's enough."
Her voice trembled just a little.
"I've been there for you, not just for your sake… but for mine too. Seeing you fine and happy makes me fine and happy."
She squeezed her hand.
"And don't worry—even if you lose me again, I'll be like that red journal. Even if I get buried among the books, one day you'll find me again—and it'll never feel unfamiliar. It'll feel like coming home. Because you're my best friend and my sister and my soulmate."
Tears spilt over. She couldn't hold them back anymore. She hugged her friend tightly and sobbed.
But her friend, already back to her usual tone, gently wiped her tears and said,
"Alright, enough crying. If you saw your face through my eyes right now, you'd never cry again. So ugly."
She laughed through her tears and swatted her hand away.
"Shut up."
Her friend laughed too and looked around.
"What are you looking for?" she asked.
Her friend grinned,
"The mop. I want to clean your face."
She giggled.
"Mop your own face, idiot."
Her friend eventually left. She sat there for a moment longer, looking around at her now neat and clean house
feeling neat and clean inside, too.
She pulled out her phone and typed a message to her husband:
"Come back for dinner. I'm waiting for you."
He replied almost instantly:
"Okay."
She smiled, her heart full, and headed toward the kitchen.
The end
Vida 😁