That night, we made a list. Scribbled in crooked handwriting on the back of a crumpled math worksheet.
At the top, Hari wrote in bold strokes: Seven Days of Us.
We didn't speak much while writing it. Just passed the pen back and forth, jotting down the echoes of an unfinished friendship.
Finish our comic
Play cricket on the railway ground
Steal mangoes from Sharma uncle's orchard
Ride to the lake
Visit Ms. Joshi
Make one song
Watch stars from the school terrace
We both knew we might not do it all. But that didn't matter. This wasn't about checking boxes. It was about showing up — this time, fully.
Day 1: Notebook Man Returns
We began in my room, on the floor, surrounded by old notebooks and pens that barely worked.
The comic was where we left it — halfway through a battle scene, our hero "Notebook Man" facing a villain made of forgotten homework.
Hari sketched quickly, same as before. Sharp lines, chaotic energy. His tongue stuck out the side of his mouth as he drew. I hadn't realized how much I missed that small habit.
My job was dialogue. I tried to keep it funny, but somehow the jokes turned into truths.
Notebook Man no longer just fought villains — he fought loneliness, change, growing apart.
Hari didn't say much, but he paused at one panel and smiled. "Still can't write without sounding dramatic," he said.
"Still can't draw hands," I shot back.
And just like that, we were us again — with sarcasm and ink-stained fingers.
Day 2: The Ground Beneath Us
The railway ground hadn't changed. Still dry, still uneven, still waiting for kids who believed they were stars.
We showed up with a taped ball, an old bat, and two borrowed stumps.
A couple of younger boys joined in, wide-eyed. "Aren't you two the legends?" one asked.
Hari winked at me. "Guess we still got fans."
He bowled first. I swung and missed every time.
"You've aged like spoiled milk," he shouted, laughing.
We played till our shirts clung to our backs. When the ball rolled into the ditch, we spent ten minutes searching, only to have it returned by a dog that trotted over proudly.
We never kept score. But that day, we won something more than points.
Day 3: Mango Season
The orchard fence was still broken at the back. The cow shed still leaned sideways. Sharma uncle probably still pretended not to notice us.
We snuck in like kids again, ducking, giggling, barely suppressing the joy in our bones.
Hari climbed the tree first. His hands were faster than I remembered. He tossed me a mango, green and hard, and I caught it like treasure.
"You afraid of heights?" I called out.
"I am," he said, perched like a bird. "But being up here… I forget."
We sat on a thick branch, salt sachet in hand, eating the raw mango with dusty fingers. The tang stung our tongues.
Hari looked across the orchard. "Promise me you'll remember this," he said.
"I will," I said. "Even if nothing else stays."
We sat there, feet swinging, chewing memories. The wind blew through the trees, and for a moment, the world felt full again.