IN ANOTHER LIFETIME

Our Rooftop Promise

I don’t know why that night stands out so clearly in my memory. Maybe because it was one of those rare evenings where everything felt still — no noise, no rush, just peace. It was the end of our final year in university. The hostel was almost empty because most people had gone home, but Dami and I stayed back to help a friend move out.

When we finished, we bought suya and a couple of sodas, climbed up to the rooftop, and sat there watching the city lights flicker below us. The air smelled like rain and roasted corn. I remember thinking it was perfect.

He sat beside me, his camera hanging from his neck like it always did. Dami loved taking photos of random things — broken windows, sunsets, street kids smiling — anything that felt real. That night, though, he didn’t take any pictures. He just sat quietly, looking thoughtful.

“What’s on your mind?” I asked, tearing off a piece of suya.

He shrugged. “Nothing really. Just thinking about how fast everything’s changing.”

“Hmm,” I said, chewing. “You’re getting sentimental again.”

“I’m serious,” he said with a small smile. “We’re graduating. Everyone’s going their separate ways. It’s weird.”

I looked at him properly then. The yellow streetlight hit his face in a soft way. He looked older that night, not like the goofy boy I grew up with. There was something heavy in his eyes — the kind of sadness you feel but can’t explain.

“You’ll still see me,” I said. “It’s not like I’m moving to another planet.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, but people change. Life happens. You’ll probably get a fancy job, move somewhere far, meet someone new, and forget all about me.”

I laughed. “Wow. You really think I’m that heartless?”

He grinned. “I didn’t say that. I just know how life works. Sometimes we don’t mean to lose people… we just do.”

I didn’t like how that sounded, so I nudged him. “Okay, fine. If by 30 we’re both still single and miserable, we’ll pity ourselves and marry each other. Deal?”

He turned to look at me, amused. “Wait, what?”

“You heard me,” I said, holding out my pinky finger. “Deal or no deal?”

He smirked. “You? Marry me? You can’t even stand my music taste.”

“I’ll endure,” I said dramatically. “For the sake of our future marriage.”

He laughed, that deep, warm laugh I’d heard a thousand times before. Then he linked his pinky with mine and said, “Deal. But just know — if we ever get married, I’m not doing chores.”

“Then you’ll starve,” I said.

We laughed again, long and loud, the kind of laughter that makes your chest hurt in a good way. For a few minutes, we just sat there in silence afterward. He leaned back, staring at the stars, and I did the same.

I didn’t realize it then, but that moment — the quiet, the warmth, the peace — it was our goodbye before life started to pull us apart.

He broke the silence after a while. “Do you ever think about the future? Like, what kind of life you want?”

“Sometimes,” I said. “I just want to do something meaningful. Something that makes me proud.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I get that. I want that too. But sometimes, I just want a simple life. Peace. Love. Someone to share it with.”

I glanced at him, curious. “You sound like a romantic.”

He smiled softly. “Maybe I am. Or maybe I’ve just watched too many movies with you.”

That night, he seemed different — quieter, more serious. I wondered if he wanted to say something more but couldn’t find the words. I didn’t ask though. I never did.

When it was time to leave, we climbed down from the roof slowly. He walked me back to my hostel, carrying my half-empty soda bottle for no reason. When we reached my door, he stopped and said, “You know I’d do anything for you, right?”

I smiled, thinking he was just being dramatic again. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Goodnight, Dami.”

“Goodnight, Tara.”

If I had known that was the last peaceful night we’d have together, maybe I would’ve hugged him longer. Maybe I would’ve told him that I didn’t just see him as my best friend. That part of me already knew I couldn’t imagine life without him.

But I didn’t say any of that. I just went inside, closed the door, and laughed to myself about our silly “marriage pact.”

Now, years later, that memory sits in my chest like a heartbeat I can’t silence.

Every time I think about him, it’s that night I return to — the sound of his laughter, the warmth of the rooftop, the way his eyes looked when he said he’d do anything for me.

And sometimes I wonder if he already knew, somehow, that one day I’d look back and wish I had said more.