Scooty Rides and Silent Bonds

It was an ordinary day when I spoke to my old friend from 12th grade again. The conversation wasn’t long or deep, but it carried a strange warmth—like hearing an old melody you once loved. We hadn’t spoken properly since her birthday in April, and even then, it had been a quick birthday wish, maybe just a formality from my side. But something about today’s conversation stirred memories I thought I had forgotten.

I remember how, after that birthday call, I had this lingering feeling—like she was ignoring me. It wasn’t anything she said or did, but more of an invisible distance. Maybe it was just in my head. Maybe life had simply moved on for both of us, and I hadn’t caught up with the speed of it yet.

Still, talking to her again today made me realize something—I liked speaking to her. I always had. She wasn’t just a classmate or someone I spent time with during school hours. She was my friend, a part of a trio that once meant the world to me.

Back in 12th, we were three inseparable girls. Well, not entirely inseparable. One of us had strict parents; her father would come early to take her home right after school. She could rarely stay back, so the time we got with her was limited, precious even. But the other one—my scooty partner—she and I had a different kind of bond.

We would lie to our parents, telling them school would take longer than usual. There was no plan to go to any fancy restaurant, no shopping spree waiting for us. All we wanted was the open road and the feeling of wind brushing past us. We’d ride aimlessly on her scooty, just two girls chasing the invisible threads of freedom, weaving laughter through traffic, turning corners into memories.

There was something magical in those rides. We didn’t need a destination. We didn’t need words either, at times. The silence between us was never empty—it was filled with unspoken understanding. We’d laugh, we’d hum to songs, sometimes we’d just ride quietly, watching the world pass by.

There were no selfies, no reels, no stories to upload. Just stories we kept in our hearts, pages that only we could read.

I think about those days a lot now.

Time changes things. People drift apart, responsibilities pile up, new faces walk in where old ones once stood. But even now, when I see a scooty pass by with two girls giggling on the backseat, I smile. Because somewhere out there, we were those girls once—young, free, and so full of life.

And even though things aren’t the same, even though I sometimes feel like she’s slipping away from my world, I hold onto the memory of us. Of those roads we travelled. Of the wind in our hair and the laughter that needed no reason.

Today, when I spoke to her again, all of that came rushing back. Maybe she isn’t ignoring me. Maybe life has just gotten louder, and we forgot how soft our bond once was. But I still care. I still remember.

And I hope, somewhere in her heart, she remembers too.

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