It was during our school's annual Sports Day, the kind of bright and overhyped event I usually dreaded. I hated crowds, hated being forced to run or throw or jump in front of people. But Tasha loved it. She thrived under the sun, under the noise, under the challenge. She was the fastest in our year. Everyone knew it. I think she knew it too.
That day, I sat under a tree with my book, hoping to stay invisible. Tasha was already on the field, bouncing on her heels in a red jersey two sizes too big. She looked excited, charged, like a spark that hadn't yet met flame.
When the race began, I stood to watch. She was fast, graceful and focused, her braids flying behind her like streamers. She won by a mile. And then I saw it, the way Elijah, one of the older boys, lifted her up in celebration, spinning her once before setting her down. She was laughing. He was laughing. He ruffled her hair.
I don't know why it hit me so hard. Maybe because she let him. I waited for her afterward. She didn't come. By the time I found her, she was sitting with a group near the snack tent, chatting like I didn't exist. I stood there, book in hand, heart in throat.
Finally, she noticed me. "Oh hey, Kerif," she called. "Come sit." But her voice sounded… distant. Too casual. Like I was just some classmate. I sat beside her, stiff, saying nothing.
"You missed the 800-meter race," she said. "It was brutal. Fatuma nearly tripped me, but I still came in second."
I nodded, eyes on the grass.
She leaned closer. "Are you okay?"
I shrugged.
"Is this about earlier?"
"No," I lied.
She studied me for a moment. "It was just a celebration. He does that with everyone. Don't be weird."
"I'm not being weird."
"Says the weird person."
I didn't answer. I couldn't. Because she was right. I was being weird. I didn't know how to handle the unfamiliar weight in my chest. This mixture of jealousy, sadness, and something else I didn't have a name for. I hated how it made me feel. Small. Powerless. We walked home in silence that day.
The following week was strained. Not overtly. We still talked, still played, still sat in our usual spot under the pine tree, but something had shifted. Our rhythms were off. Where there was once ease, there was now caution.
One afternoon, she arrived late to the backyard, holding a folded paper in her hand.
"What's that?" I asked.
She hesitated, then handed it to me.
It was a permission slip, for a school trip to the coast. Three days. Overnight.
"Elijah says it's awesome," she said. "His brother went last year."
I handed it back without a word.
"You're not going?" she asked.
I shook my head. "My parents said no."
"Oh." She glanced down. "Well, maybe next year."
I wanted to say something, something brave or clever or at least honest, but nothing came out. I just stood there; heart stuck in my throat like a swallowed stone.
"You're mad at me," she said flatly.
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm not, Tasha."
"Then what?"
I looked at her, and for the first time in months, I didn't know how to read her expression. She seemed tired. Frustrated.
"You used to tell me everything," I said quietly.
Her face changed. Softened, but only slightly. "You used to listen."
I stepped back. That one stung more than I expected.
She sighed, ran her hand through her braids, and looked away. "I don't know what you want from me anymore."
"I don't either," I said truthfully. She left early that day.
That night, I wrote about her in my notebook. Not the silly kingdom laws or the imaginative tales we used to make up, just raw thoughts. I didn't plan to show them to anyone. Maybe not even to her. I don't know if I'm losing you, I wrote. Or if I just never had the right to want to keep you. I stared at the sentence for a long time. Then I flipped the page and started a new entry.
Days passed. The distance didn't disappear, but it stopped growing. Like a tree that had leaned too far but hadn't yet fallen. We both pretended the tension wasn't there, as if silence could solve what words couldn't.
But that's the thing about childhood, you believe time will fix everything. You think bruises fade just because they're no longer purple. You think friendship means forever, even when the seams start to fray. Looking back, I think we both understood, in some small, sad way, that something had changed. We just didn't know how to say it out loud.
A week after our argument, or whatever it was, we found ourselves under the pine tree again. The sky was the color of old stone, heavy with unshed rain. Everything smelled like wet earth and coming change.
We sat a few feet apart, neither of us speaking. She was plucking blades of grass, tying them into loops. I was pretending to read, but the words didn't stick. The silence between us was thick, filled with things unsaid.
Then, softly, she asked, "Do you hate me?"
The question caught me off guard.
"What? No."
"You haven't looked at me properly in days."
I closed the book and set it down. "I don't hate you, Tasha."
She glanced at me sideways. "Then why have you been acting like I kicked your puppy?"
I wanted to laugh, but I didn't. Not yet.
"I don't know," I said honestly. "I just… I think I got jealous."
Her eyebrows rose. "Of Elijah?"
"Of anyone who gets to know parts of you that I don't."
She stopped fiddling with the grass.
"I know that sounds stupid."
"No," she said after a long pause. "It doesn't."
The wind moved gently through the branches above us. The pine needles rustled, like the tree itself was listening in.
"I don't always know how to be close to people," she said, barely above a whisper. "Not without messing it up. I get scared."
"Scared of what?"
"That I'll get too used to them. That I'll start depending on them. And then they'll leave."
"I'm not going to leave," I said.
She turned toward me fully now. Her eyes searched mine, serious and uncertain.
"You might. Someday."
"Then I'll come back."
The words came out before I had time to think. But I meant them. Even then.
She looked away, pulling her knees up to her chest. "You're the only person who's never made me feel small."
I felt my throat tighten.
"And you're the only one who sees me," I replied. "Like really sees me."
She smiled. The real kind, the kind that lifts her whole face.
"I'm glad I met you, Kerif."
"Me too."
We stayed like that a while, watching the clouds drift, our shoulders nearly touching. That closeness returned, not with the same lightness it once had, but something better. Something earned. Forged through honesty.
Later that afternoon, she stood up, dusted off her pants, and said, "I have something to show you." She led me to her room and dug through the top drawer of her old wooden desk. She pulled out a crumpled envelope.
"This is what I wrote for the time capsule," she said.
"You're finally going to let me read it?"
She hesitated, then nodded.
I unfolded the paper, smoothing it out carefully. Her handwriting was messy, the loops uneven, as if she'd written it in a rush.
If someone finds this, it began, it means our kingdom is buried, but not forgotten. We were two kids with imaginations too big for the world. If you're reading this in the future, know this: we ruled with kindness. We played fair. We told the truth, even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt.
I swallowed hard.
And if Kerif is reading this… I hope you never forgot me. I hope you still remember the sound of our laughter under the pine tree, and how we never needed anything except each other. You are my best friend. My first friend. My real home.
I looked up.
Tasha was watching me with a strange expression, not embarrassed, not proud. Just quiet.
"Why didn't you let me read it before?" I asked.
"Because back then, it was easier not to say how much you mattered to me."
I folded the paper slowly, carefully. My hands felt warm.
"I don't think I'll ever forget you," I said.
She smiled again, softer this time. "Good. Because I won't let you."
That evening, I wrote a final journal entry for the day. The air smelled of rain again, and a soft hush fell across the house.
I don't know what the future holds for us, I wrote. But I know this: love doesn't always arrive with fireworks. Sometimes, it enters quietly, like a girl with muddy shoes and a suitcase full of ghosts, and it changes everything.
Sometimes, love just looks like a hand offered in the rain.