HE LEFT AND NEVER RETURNED

There are some moments in life we never truly recover from—memories that time dares not erase. One such moment was the day he left and never returned.

He was more than a friend. He was my brother in every way but blood. We were classmates, teammates, gist partners, and dreamers. Our bond was forged through shared laughter, silly pranks, classroom troubles, and endless conversations about the future we were certain we’d conquer together. His absence is a wound that still bleeds quietly in my heart, especially when I remember those days that now live only in memory.

I remember how he would burst into the classroom with that wide grin of his—full of life, full of mischief, full of plans. He had a way of making the ordinary feel extraordinary. During group assignments, he was the one who made everyone laugh, even when we were under pressure. When teachers got strict, he’d whisper funny things just to make us smile. We shared textbooks, meals, dreams. We were boys becoming men—innocent, hopeful, and naive about how cruel life could be.

Then, one day, he left. Not just left the school. He left the world.

It still feels unreal. I remember the news. At first, I refused to believe it. I thought it was just one of those rumors that spread too fast in schoolyards. But reality hit like a thunderclap—he was gone. A sudden sickness, an accident, or perhaps something deeper none of us ever understood. One moment he was here, planning the next class party, and the next moment, we were staring at his empty seat, heartbroken and silent.

The day of his burial still haunts me. Watching the lifeless body of someone who once embodied life itself—still, cold, and unresponsive—was a pain no words can adequately express. As the sand covered him, so did it cover a part of my soul.

Sometimes I wonder what life would be like if he had stayed. Would we have traveled the world together? Would we have started a business, or launched a movement? Would we still be sitting somewhere under a tree, laughing at our old school stories? His dreams were big. He wanted to become someone important. He wanted to build a house for his mother, help his younger ones, and give back to society. But death came like a thief and stole him before he could even begin.

I still remember the sound of his laughter. I still hear his voice in the corridors of my mind. Some days, I scroll through old class photos just to see his face again. I find myself smiling, then crying. Smiling because we had beautiful memories; crying because those memories are all I have left.

People say time heals. Maybe that’s true for some. But not for me. His death taught me that some pains don’t disappear—they simply become part of you. Like a scar you learn to live with.

Now, every time I look at our old classroom, or hear the bell that once marked the end of classes, or see a group of boys joking and laughing like we once did, I feel a pinch in my heart. I remember him. And it hurts.

He left and never returned. But in my heart, he lives on.