IN ANOTHER LIFETIME

I met Dami when I was nine. He lived in the house right next to mine — the boy who was always climbing trees, always smiling, and always somehow covered in dust. My mom used to complain that he was too rough, but I never cared. He made life interesting. From the first day we met, something just clicked. He had this calm energy that made you feel safe, like the world couldn’t touch you as long as he was there. We went to the same school, walked home together, fought over the TV remote, and shared snacks like siblings. But even back then, I knew we weren’t just “friends.” There was something different. I remember one afternoon after school, I was crying because some girl said my handwriting was ugly. Dami walked up to her the next day and told her my handwriting was “unique” and that “Einstein’s handwriting was worse.” I didn’t even know who Einstein was, but I stopped crying. That was Dami — always defending me, even over the smallest things. As we grew older, people started teasing us. “When are you two getting married?” teachers would joke. “You guys act like a couple,” our classmates would say. We always laughed it off. “Never,” I’d say, pretending to be disgusted. “He’s like my brother.” But deep down, I knew that wasn’t the full truth. We had this unspoken understanding — something that didn’t need words. He always knew when I was upset. I always knew when he was pretending to be fine. Our friendship wasn’t perfect — we argued, got mad at each other, even went days without talking sometimes — but it was solid. The kind of bond that felt like it would last forever. One memory that always comes back to me is a rainy evening when the power went out. I was scared of thunder, so I ran to his house. He laughed at me the whole time but still handed me a blanket and let me sit by the candlelight in his room. We talked about random things that night — life, dreams, stupid jokes — until the rain stopped. Then we just sat there, listening to the dripping water outside. He suddenly said, “You know, I think we’ll still be close when we’re old.” I looked at him and smiled. “Of course we will. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.” And I believed that. Completely. When we got to university, we stayed close even though we studied different things. He was into photography, always taking pictures of random things — trees, clouds, people laughing. He said he loved freezing moments that people usually missed. I used to tease him about how serious he looked behind the camera. He’d just smile and say, “One day, I’ll take a picture of you that captures how I see you.” He never did. I wish he had. Our friendship matured with us. He became my comfort zone — the person I could always count on. When I failed a test, when my boyfriend broke up with me, when I doubted myself — Dami was always there. Sometimes I wondered if I took him for granted. But then again, I thought he’d always be there, so I never questioned it too deeply. He wasn’t perfect. He could be annoying, stubborn, and sometimes too quiet. There were days he’d withdraw and I’d have to drag words out of him. But even on those days, his presence was enough. He had this way of making silence feel safe, not awkward. I remember one particular night — our final year in university. We were both tired from exams and just sitting on the hostel roof, looking at the stars. Out of nowhere, he said, “If we’re both still single at 30, let’s just pity ourselves and marry each other.” I laughed so hard I nearly spilled my drink. “What? You? Marry me? Please.” He smiled, that lazy, teasing kind of smile. “You’ll see. You’ll be begging me to marry you one day.” I rolled my eyes. “Keep dreaming.” Then we did a pinky promise — just for fun — sealing that ridiculous deal. I didn’t take it seriously at all. But now, years later, that memory feels like a ghost that won’t stop following me. Because that was Dami. The boy who made everything feel easy. The one person I thought I’d never lose. Sometimes, when I think back to those days, I can still hear his laughter. I can still picture the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. I can still feel that quiet sense of peace that came with just being around him. We were just two people who thought life would always give us time. But time, as I would later learn, doesn’t make promises — it just keeps moving. If I had known how our story would end, maybe I would’ve held on tighter. Maybe I would’ve told him how much he meant to me. But at that time, it was easier to believe that friendships like ours never end. And for a while… it really did feel like forever.