The Reunion We Both Needed

The festival lights were brighter than I remembered. Every corner of the street glowed with warm strings of bulbs, fairy lights twisted around poles, and the soft shimmer of colored lanterns swaying in the evening breeze. The air smelled of roasted corn, incense, and fresh jalebis being fried somewhere nearby. Children ran past with glowing sticks, music played from the main stage, and everything felt like nostalgia wrapped in gold. I hadn’t planned to come. I was tired, work had drained me, and festivals never felt the same once you grew up. But something—curiosity, maybe—pulled me out of the house. I wandered deeper into the crowd, feeling that odd mix of familiarity and unfamiliarity that old places tend to bring. The stalls were the same. The food was the same. Even the chaos was the same. The only thing I didn’t expect was to see her. Riya. She stood near the ferris wheel ticket counter, her hair tied in a half-up knot, wearing a pastel kurti that caught the glow of the festival lights just right. She looked older, yes—more mature, more grounded—but something about her smile still had that same softness I remembered from school. She was laughing at something the vendor said, pushing her hair behind her ear the way she always did. And for a moment, I just… watched. Almost like my younger self was looking through my eyes again. It had been years. Years of unfinished sentences, quiet crushes we never spoke about, feelings we swallowed because we were young and scared. And now, here she was. At the same festival where we once stood as clueless teenagers, pretending not to like each other. Before I could make a choice about what to do, she looked up. Her eyes skimmed the crowd—briefly, casually— Then froze. On me. Her smile faded for a second, replaced by something wide-eyed and stunned… And then it returned, warmer than I expected, as if she’d been waiting for this moment too. She waved. Not shy. Not hesitant. Just a simple, genuine wave that made my heart stumble a little. I walked toward her, pushing through the crowd, feeling suddenly aware of every breath. “You?” she said when I reached her, her voice drifting somewhere between disbelief and happiness. “Here? After all these years?” I shrugged lightly. “Guess the universe wanted to surprise us.” She laughed softly. “It did a good job.” We stood there for a moment—too long to be casual, too short to count as a silence. The ferris wheel behind her creaked slowly, lights blinking like a memory trying to get our attention. “You look the same,” she said, studying me with an honesty that made me blush more than I’d admit. “And you…” I hesitated. “You look like someone time has been kind to.” Her cheeks warmed. “That’s a very poetic way of calling me old.” “Not old,” I said. “Just… the version of you I always hoped you’d grow into.” Her eyes softened—those same eyes that once made high-school corridors feel less intimidating. “You want to walk?” she asked gently. “I’d like that.” We moved through the festival side by side, the crowd shifting around us in waves. Everything felt strangely natural, as if no years had passed at all. “So,” she began, glancing sideways, “how’s life? You disappeared after college.” “I didn’t disappear,” I said, kicking a pebble lightly. “Life just… took me away for a while.” She nodded. “Yeah. Life does that.” “And you?” I asked. “How have you been?” “Better now,” she said before she could stop herself. When she realized what she’d said, she laughed nervously. “I mean—better in general. Things are good.” “No,” I said, smiling. “I liked your first answer.” She shot me a look. Half playful. Half vulnerable. We passed a street magician, a giant cotton-candy stand, and a ring-toss stall where kids screamed in victory. Riya paused in front of the stall selling kulfis and pointed at her favorite flavor—malai. “You still love that?” I asked. “You remember?” “I remember everything.” She blinked, surprised. “Even after all these years?” “Especially after all these years.” She didn’t look away this time. Not even for a second. We took our kulfis and wandered toward a quieter part of the festival, near the old banyan tree where we used to sit as teenagers. The tree was wrapped in lights now, glowing softly like a silent witness to everything we once were. Riya exhaled, long and thoughtful. “You know… I used to hope I’d run into you someday.” My heart tightened. “Why didn’t you reach out?” “I did,” she admitted. “Twice. Typed the messages. Deleted them. I didn’t know if you ever thought about me anymore.” I laughed under my breath, not because it was funny— but because it hurt in the sweetest way. “You think I forgot you?” I asked quietly. “Well,” she said, trying to smile, “it felt like you moved on.” “I tried,” I whispered. “But some people leave a mark even when they leave.” Her breath hitched. Just a little. Just enough for me to notice. We sat under the banyan tree, our shoulders not touching but close enough to feel the warmth. “You know,” she said softly, “back in school… I liked you. More than I ever said.” “I know,” I replied. She blinked. “You knew?” I nodded. “But I was too scared to ruin what we had. And by the time I figured myself out, it felt like the moment had passed.” She looked down at her hands. “Maybe it didn’t.” The breeze picked up, swaying the lanterns above us, carrying the scent of jasmine and festival smoke. “What are you saying?” I asked gently. She looked up—eyes steady, certain, glowing faintly with warmth. “I don’t know if the timing was wrong then… or right now. But meeting you tonight—it reminded me of the version of myself I liked the most.” I swallowed. “And who was that?” “The girl who wasn’t afraid to feel things. The girl who wasn’t afraid to choose you.” Silence expanded between us, delicate and real. I moved my hand closer to hers—not touching, but almost touching in the way that holds a hundred unsaid things. “Riya,” I said softly, “I think the universe brought us here for a reason.” She smiled—small, beautiful, honest. “Then maybe,” she whispered, “we shouldn’t waste it this time.” The festival noise faded into the background. The lights glowed brighter around us. And for the first time in years, it didn’t feel like we were standing in a memory. It felt like we were standing at the beginning of something new. Something the younger versions of us had wanted… and the older versions were finally ready to hold. The reunion wasn’t planned. But maybe it was exactly the one we both needed.