I hadn't walked this stretch of road in years.
The narrow lane that led from school to my home still had that quiet charm — uneven bricks, the overhanging gulmohar trees spilling red blossoms, and the steady hum of afternoon silence that only a small town could offer. My feet knew every crack and dip in the pavement, but today, every step felt unfamiliar. Like I was walking beside the ghost of my own memories.
Harish and Anika walked a few steps ahead, still arguing about the plot twist in the thriller we watched two days ago — or rather, they watched, and I had pretended to enjoy the first time around. I smiled to myself. This was the longest I had seen them talk without tension. Without that brittle edge that eventually turned into goodbye.
They paused at the bend near the abandoned park. I knew what came next.
Anika tugged Harish's sleeve. "Let's take the long route today," she said, her eyes flicking to me. "Haven't been near the canal in weeks."
I blinked. This was new.
Last time, they had gone straight home.
But not today.
We followed her lead, taking the detour through the old canal path — a shaded walkway that once echoed with our childhood laughter, when we used to float paper boats in the rain.
As we reached the edge, the canal lay still, shallow from the dry season. The concrete embankments were cracked with time, and tufts of grass had grown wild in places.
"Remember this?" Anika asked, crouching near the edge. "We used to race boats here every monsoon."
I nodded. "You always won. Yours had those pointed tips."
She laughed. "Because I used the extra fold. You guys never listened."
Harish picked up a crumpled paper from his notebook and began folding. "Let's see if you still got it."
Within minutes, three paper boats were gently lowered into the murky water. We stood there, watching them drift — one slightly ahead, one caught in the weeds, one spinning in place.
"I forgot how this felt," Harish said.
"To slow down?" I asked.
"To belong somewhere," he murmured.
The words hung in the air longer than they should have.
Anika didn't respond, but I noticed the way her hand clutched the hem of her sleeve. That's how she used to hold back tears.
And in that silence, I remembered: this moment hadn't happened in my past. Not like this.
We had taken a different road. Skipped this detour. And so this memory, this healing, had never been made.
This was new.
I had changed the path — not just metaphorically. Literally.
As the boats drifted under the stone culvert and disappeared from view, I felt something loosen in my chest.
Maybe I couldn't change everything. But I could create new memories — ones that didn't end in pain.
"Let's do this again," Anika whispered.
I nodded.
This time, I would be here for it.