Alya and I were standing in front of the snack aisle, deep in a trivial yet oddly comforting debate about whether we should bring home seaweed chips or caramel popcorn, when I suddenly felt a pair of arms wrap around me from behind. There was a familiar curve pressing gently into my back—slender, unmistakably feminine. Even without turning, I knew exactly who it was. I would recognize that frame, that warmth, anywhere.
Alya looked at me in surprise, her eyebrows raised, her lips parting slightly. But the person clinging to me paid no attention to her. She was too busy planting herself against my spine, resting her head on my shoulder, and whispering in a teasing tone that was both endearing and dramatic.
"Baby, I miss you."
I turned around, half-annoyed and half-smiling, just to confirm my guess. And there she was—Anya. My childhood friend, her wiry arms now wrapped around me from the front. Her embrace felt like a sudden gust of summer after a long, muted winter.
"Anya, I can't breathe!" I laughed, trying to wiggle free. She didn't budge. Of course she wouldn't. After all, it had been almost a year and a half since we last saw each other. The last time we met was here too, in this very city. But life, in its relentless spinning, had kept me away from home. And whenever I did manage to return, Anya wasn't there.
Our only thread of connection had been social media. Despite the distance, we never truly lost touch. At least once a day, one of us would check in. A sticker, a meme, a "hey, you alive?" was enough to keep the bond taut. But lately, she had grown quiet. I figured she was just busy with university. Life demands sacrifices, and attention is often the first to go.
But now—here she was. No planning. No warning. Just… fate.
"What are you doing here?" I asked once she had her fill of cuddling.
"My aunt's throwing a party—her kid's getting married. So, the whole family came," she replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
I remembered now. One of Anya's aunts lived in this city, not too far from my boarding house. Whenever she visited, she would stay there. She never asked to crash at my place, knowing the space was limited. Instead, I would often sleep over at her aunt's big house when she had too much to tell and couldn't fit it all in a single voice note.
"I messaged you this afternoon," she continued, "but your phone was off."
She was right. My phone had died hours ago, and I hadn't had the chance to charge it.
"So I texted Ujo," she added. "He told me you were here. So I came looking."
Ah, so it wasn't entirely a coincidence. Still, in a mall this size, stumbling into each other felt like magic.
"Babe, I'm starving," she said, rubbing her flat stomach and scanning the crowd.
Then, as if noticing her for the first time, her eyes landed on Alya, who had been quietly watching us.
"This is Alya, right? Your new roommate?"
I nodded and introduced them. Alya offered a polite "kak," as she did to anyone older than her—except me.
Anya smiled wide and said, "Alya's so pretty. You look like a YouTuber or an influencer or something."
We had moved down to a fast-food place on the first floor, burgers now in hand. Alya just smiled at the compliment, graceful and composed. I suspected she had heard similar praises many times before.
"Can you teach Gadis how to dress up?" Anya asked suddenly, genuinely serious this time. "Look at her—always tying up her hair, wearing the same old black shirts and ripped jeans."
She scanned me dramatically from head to toe. "She's pretty too, you know. Back in middle school, she rejected like, what, a dozen boys?"
I rolled my eyes, embarrassed. Alya smiled again, but something about her was off. Uncharacteristically quiet. For someone who was usually more extroverted than I was, Alya barely said a word. She answered Anya's enthusiastic chatter with only short replies, sometimes just a nod or a smile.
Something wasn't right.
I glanced at her, trying to read her face. Was she okay?
"I'm fine," she whispered so softly that Anya probably didn't catch it. But I did. She must've noticed the way I'd been watching her.
I turned my attention back to Anya, who was now telling a story about her campus life, the odd professors, the people she met, her dog back home. I laughed along, drawn into the rhythm of her words. Alya remained quiet, listening, occasionally sipping her drink or brushing a fry through the ketchup.
Even as I laughed and joked, part of me was still watching Alya from the corner of my eye. She wasn't distant—but she wasn't present either. Like she was here, but behind a window.
And I wondered—was it jealousy? Discomfort? Or maybe she was just tired.
As the conversation went on, memories began weaving themselves between me and Anya like warm threads from the past. We had grown up together, chasing sunsets on bicycles, laughing over ice cream cups, dancing barefoot under the rain. She was my chaos, my comfort, my constant. And now, even though months had passed, it felt like we were picking up right where we left off.
But this time, something was different. There was another presence now. Another heartbeat in the rhythm we used to share.
Alya.
She wasn't a stranger to me. She was the person I woke up next to every day, the one who shared silences and soup on long, rainy nights. She wasn't just a roommate—she had started to feel like a mirror, like a melody I hadn't known I was humming until someone pointed it out.
So now I sat there—between an old song and a new one, between nostalgia and something unnamed. Alya was quiet, but her presence pulled at me like gravity.
And suddenly, I realized this wasn't just a casual meeting in a mall food court.
This was a crossroad.
And the air was thick with all the things unsaid.