If it was real

Chapter Three: The Space Between Stars

We both loved to read, but Basmala wrote poetry. Not the boring kind either-hers felt like music with stars in the margins. She once wrote a poem called The Girl Who Heard the Moon Sigh. I didn't even know moons could sigh until she made me believe they could.

Our desks became our galaxy. Our notebooks, constellations.

...

By the end of that school year, it was just... understood. Saturdays belonged to Basmala and me. She'd arrive mid-morning, her hair tied in a ponytail with a pale blue scrunchie. She smelled like citrus shampoo and something vaguely floral, like her mom's perfume had kissed her cheek before she left.

We created entire worlds on the shaded patio outside my house. Our notebooks became spellbooks. Our crayons became sacred wands. Neel sat a few feet away with his stack of picture books, occasionally crawling over to inform us that whales had belly buttons or that Mercury spun faster than Earth. Basmala would nod solemnly and say, "That explains everything," like he had revealed a plot twist in our make-believe mystery.

Dev rarely joined us. He was either biking with his friends or buried in his comic book drawings with Armaan. If he came outside, it was usually to grab a snack or yell across the yard at Armaan through the wooden slats in the fence.

Rohit followed Dev everywhere that summer, trying to be faster, stronger, louder. Karthik visited on Sundays and told wild stories about middle school-lockers, essays, teachers who wore bow ties. I secretly wrote every word down in the back of my notebook.

Navya and Dania were both sixteen, going on seventeen. They spent most of their time re-watching old Keeping Up with the Kardashians episodes, testing contour palettes, or arguing about college essay topics. Sometimes, they humored us at family dinners. Still, their eyes were always elsewhere-on phones, futures, and anything beyond the backyard.

Neel-sweet, curious Neel-was almost always nearby with a book tucked under one arm and a pencil he pretended was a wand. He followed Dev around the yard, asking endless questions about clouds, soccer moves, or why frogs didn't wear shoes. Dev mostly brushed him off but sometimes let him help pick teams or hold the stopwatch when timing each other's sprints. Neel never said much to Basmala-he was still in that phase where girls were vaguely interesting but mostly mysterious. What mattered most was tagging along with the big kids and being seen as "one of them."

...

Our ninth birthday fell on a Wednesday, but the real celebration happened the weekend before. Ba said Wednesday birthdays were lucky, and Dada agreed-he said it was the same day he and Ba first landed in America, carrying just two suitcases and a letter from his old professor at UT who promised him a desk and a future.

We didn't want anything huge. No ponies, no bouncy castle, no magician making balloon giraffes. Just dinner. Just family. Just Chuy's. Something about it felt like the right kind of grown-up-a warm, familiar grown-up, not the scary kind. We were still kids, but now kids who knew how to sit still for queso and keep their napkins in their laps.

They pushed together three long booths at the back of the restaurant, and the table stretched like a bridge from one universe to another. Dev and I sat in the middle, birthday twins at the center of the storm. The noise was a language of its own-chips crunching, cousins shouting, parents laughing, forks tapping against plates like music.

Dev wore his favorite navy shirt with tiny white rockets on the sleeves. I wore the yellow dress Ba bought me a week ago, with ruffles at the sleeves and pockets deep enough for a mini notebook. My barrettes matched, and one side of my hair looped like a ribbon-Basmala had braided it that morning while humming under her breath.