If it was real

Chapter Three: The Space Between Stars

One evening near the end of July, I saw Zain at the fence.

He wasn't looking for me. He was kicking a soccer ball back and forth with Ayaan, but the ball rolled through the slats and into our backyard.

I grabbed it before Dev could and tossed it back over the fence.

Zain caught it and gave me a small, quick smile, almost shy.

"Thanks," he said.

And then, before I could think about it, I said, "Do you ever miss being little?"

He blinked, surprised. "Sometimes," he said. Then he kicked the ball again and turned away.

That night, I drew another constellation-one with an empty space in the middle. I didn't name it. I just looked at it and wondered if it had always been there, waiting.

Fourth grade began with a new teacher, a new classroom, and a brand-new pair of sneakers that Ba insisted would help me "run toward success." They were white with purple stripes and squeaked on the linoleum floor for the first two weeks of school. Dev said they made me sound like a cartoon mouse. I wore them anyway.

Ms. Herrera was different from Ms. Khan-taller, sharper, and always holding a red pen. She had a collection of miniature cacti on her windowsill and gave pop quizzes like they were candy. I liked her, but I missed the softness of last year. The first few days, I walked around the classroom like a guest in someone else's house, touching nothing and wondering where the light would fall.

Basmala and I were still in the same class, which felt like a secret gift from the universe. We got desks by the window and decided immediately to turn our shared space into a tiny universe. She brought gel pens and sticky tabs. I brought colored paper and stickers shaped like stars and teacups.

We started writing notes in the margins of our work.

"B: Imagine this is a story where the cactus grows wings."

"D: What if Ms. Herrera is secretly a detective?"

We had a language of our own. It made the days stretch less. It made math bearable, even when I got the answers wrong and forgot to carry the one. Dev never forgot to carry the one. He wasn't in my class this year, but we met in the cafeteria. He'd wave at me from his table of boys-Noah, Armaan, Kavish, Matthew-and mouth jokes that I never quite caught.

At home, we were still partners in chores and allies against Navya's TV show watching demands. But he'd started locking his bedroom door when he was on calls with Karthik. They were planning to build their own comic book series. They were already arguing over whose superhero would get the cooler backstory.

Meanwhile, I found myself wanting more time to read, write, and fold my feelings into paper stars I tucked inside books I didn't return on time.

Zain had started sixth grade, now middle school, on a different bus and with a different schedule. I barely saw him, even though we lived just across the fence. Sometimes, I'd hear his soccer ball against the garage wall. Sometimes, his voice drifted through the yard like a ghost of summer.

But mostly, there was nothing.

He didn't ignore me, not entirely. If I passed him outside, he nodded, sometimes even said hi. But it was the kind of hello that left no footprints. Like it hadn't happened, the moment after it ended.

I wanted to ask him:

Do you still remember the story about the cloud that cried bees?

Do you remember the day we built the blanket fort and said we'd never grow up?