Just one more day

I used to think ordinary days were boring.

Nothing special happened. I woke up, went to school, complained about homework, laughed at things that weren’t even funny, went home, and did it all over again the next day. I never understood why people took pictures of ordinary moments or wrote about them in journals. They were just days.

Now, I think ordinary days are the ones you remember the most.

My best friend and I had known each other for a while. Long enough that we didn’t really need to explain ourselves anymore. He knew when I was annoyed by the way I slammed my bag onto the table. He knew when I was nervous because I would start playing with my sleeves. He knew when I was pretending to be okay because I’d smile too much.

And, most importantly, he knew about my illness.

It wasn’t something we talked about constantly. I hated being reminded of it. He understood that.

Sometimes he’d ask, “You okay?”

I’d roll my eyes and say, “Obviously.”

Then he’d give me that look.

The look that said he didn’t believe me at all.

I’d sigh. “I’m fine.”

“You’re terrible at lying.”

“And you’re terrible at minding your own business.”

“That’s why we’re friends.”

I’d laugh every time.

That was us.

He never treated me differently after finding out. That was probably why I trusted him so much. He didn’t suddenly start looking at me like I was fragile. He didn’t constantly ask whether I needed help. He didn’t turn every conversation into something serious.

He just stayed.

If I was tired, he’d walk a little slower beside me without mentioning it. If I had to miss school, he’d send me whatever notes I needed. If I complained about having too much work, he’d complain with me even though his workload was probably worse.

Sometimes I wondered whether he was secretly my best friend or my unpaid therapist.

“You’re talking too much,” he’d tell me.

“You literally listened to me complain for forty minutes.”

“Because I have patience.”

“No. Because you have no life.”

He’d laugh.

And I’d laugh too.

Those were the moments I loved the most.

We had our own little routines. Sitting together during breaks. Sharing snacks even though he always stole the better pieces. Sending each other stupid messages during boring lessons. Making plans we probably wouldn’t follow through with.

We talked about the future constantly.

He wanted to do things that sounded impossible. I wanted to chase my own dreams too. We’d sit somewhere after school and talk as though we had everything figured out.

“Imagine us ten years from now,” he’d say.

“Ten years? I’ll be ancient.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“I’ll have grey hair.”

“You already act like you have grey hair.”

I’d throw something at him.

He’d laugh.

And somehow, those ridiculous conversations made the future feel real.

There were days when I felt perfectly normal. I could forget about hospitals, appointments, medication, and everything else for a while. I could just be a teenager sitting beside her best friend and complaining about school.

Those days were precious to me, even if I didn’t say it.

He knew that too.

One afternoon, we were sitting outside after school. The sky was beginning to turn orange, and most of the students had already left. I was scrolling through my phone while he was trying to finish something he’d been putting off all day.

“You’ve been staring at the same page for ten minutes,” I said.

“I’m thinking.”

“You’re pretending to think.”

He looked at me. “Do you ever stop talking?”

“No.”

“Unfortunately.”

I smiled.

For a while, neither of us said anything.

It wasn’t awkward.

That was another thing about our friendship. We didn’t always have to fill the silence. Sometimes we could just sit there and exist beside each other.

I looked toward the road as the last few students disappeared through the school gates.

“Do you think we’ll still be friends when we’re older?” I suddenly asked.

He looked up.

“Obviously.”

“You answered way too quickly.”

“Because it’s obvious.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

I smiled quietly.

Maybe he was right.

Maybe some friendships were simply meant to last.

I wanted to believe that.

I wanted to believe that there would always be another afternoon like this. Another stupid argument. Another shared snack. Another walk home. Another conversation about our ridiculous futures.

Another ordinary day.

So I didn’t think too much about tomorrow.

I just sat there beside him, listening to him complain about his unfinished work while pretending I wasn’t secretly enjoying every second of it.

At the time, it felt like nothing.

Just another day.

Just another memory.

I didn’t know how important those ordinary moments would become.