Editorial

I spent the last two weeks in anticipation of seeing my favourite face after two whole years. I counted days, marked the calendar, set (multiple) reminders and yet, the day couldn't have passed fast enough.

The 26 hours of her flight were cruel. I sent her snaps every hour in anticipation, and texted her notes about conversations we needed to have. The minute her plane landed, lightning struck and I couldn't go see her for another four hours.

After about twenty other such challenges, I finally reached her house with dishevelled hair, red roses and chocolates. I rang the bell and as the door opened, I saw my best friend and realised I hadn't felt better in the past two years. We hugged, giggled and wept all at once, but they were happy tears.

As I stood there singing an off-tune welcome-back in the tunes of "Happy Birthday", she cut her cake and I saw her not as she was that day, but as she was in kindergarten with loose pigtails. She will always be that girl who sat in a corner, writing in her secret diary sprayed with her mother's very expensive perfume. After all, I was the only one allowed to read it.