‘Record’: Sehri Tales selections, Day 23

I.

*This is part one of a two-part story by Rafid Khandaker and Labiba Raida.

As your rushed, raspy voicemail blares out for the umpteenth time, I realise your promise of our weekly call will remain only a promise yet again. I almost text you, "Again?" nearly letting my resentment get the best of me, but I don't. After all, your schedule is foreign to me, and you're probably working overtime, struggling with mounting deadlines, or maybe just out late with your friends, and that's okay.

But I'm not okay. I miss you on my way to work, when I turn my head to say something and realise you're not walking beside me. When the crippling case studies keep me awake, I remember you, solving our past papers at the library together so we don't fail. The whole school knew we were partners-in-crime. And now we share quotes to remind each other we're still best friends.

These realisations hurt more than your absence. Because I can blame you for your absence, but I am equally to blame for not requiring your presence. I've missed most of your calls. I've left countless texts on read. I couldn't be there in your darkest moments when you needed me the most. Because life had other plans. I had other plans. And I am sorry.

I am sorry that all we are to each other now are old photographs, hasty voice memos and low-rez videos. I am sorry that our friendship is now merely a recording of the past. And I am sorry I allowed the world to get between us.

by Rafid Khandaker

II.

It's paradoxical, knowing it's you and me against the world till the end of time, yet here we are across the world from each other, watching the strings tying our hearts together get stretched thin. I knew I would see you again, and I've only moved a little far away, but it never made sense why that goodbye hurt so much. But now, I know. It wasn't a goodbye to you but to our lives together. The last time we could be 'us' together, in our little town, our intertwined lives, and our interwoven hearts.

I never told you before, but on days when I wait for your call and my phone never rings, I think of all the friends I have now, wishing they were a fraction of what the person you are to me. I believed they would all be like you, that I could simply pick up, move and replace what I left with you. But it never happens. I miss you; I miss you so much. 

My hopes get crushed by the sheer realisation of your absence and how we are hanging from a flimsy thread, susceptible to break. I wish I could record how it felt when your presence was not a mere memory. Not just photographs, videos, and voice memos, but raw, visceral emotions that peek out momentarily, only to flutter away from my sight.

by Labiba Raida 

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‘Hurt’: Sehri Tales selections, Day 22

III.

12 AM
*zero calls*
*zero texts*
"It's okay, they might have bad internet connections."

3 AM
*2 simple happy birthday texts*
"They're most probably planning on a surprise."

9 AM
*4 simple happy birthday texts*
"They're definitely planning on a surprise."

5 PM
*6 simple happy birthday texts*
*3 timeline posts from long forgotten classmates*
"Maybe I should stop hoping for too much."

7 PM
*7 happy birthday texts and 7 timeline posts from virtual strangers*
"It's okay. Not like I'm a big fan of birthdays anyways."

9 PM
"Ma'am, here's your pathao order"

10 PM
I wipe away the tears and press record on my phone.
"Hello everyone welcome to my daily vlog. Today I had the best birthday ever."
*blows away the candles on the birthday cake I bought for myself*

by Mehzabeen Chaity