The grey fabric of my uniform kurta felt heavy, almost as heavy as my heart, not with the heat of Karachi, but with the weight of everything it was about to carry. I stood near the benches of the inner courtyard, gripping the green permanent marker in my hand like a lifeline, wishing our time together could be as permanent as the ink of this marker.

They say A Level is a marathon, but looking back at the last two years now, it feels more like a collage of memories of panicked morning revision, shared caffeine highs, infinite gossip sessions, countless memories and laughter that makes your heart melt.

I remember the first day, the awkward, guarded “getting to know you” phase, where I, Inaya, Zehrah, Kazi and Ahyaan were just five strangers trying to navigate college life.

I remember the first time a joke finally landed and erupted into laughter, the songs we all bonded over, the random moments when we taunted Kazi, Ahyaan’s unique way of laughing, Zehrah sleeping on every bench she could find, Inaya’s “looks like she would kill you, the “cinnamon roll” kind of moments, the countless deep talks and comedic trauma dumps that cemented our bond. We weren’t just a group anymore, we were more like the ‘Teen Titans’.

“Move your arm, I’m running out of space!” Inaya’s voice broke through my thoughts. She was grinning, but her eyes were bright. She signed her name near my shoulder in bold, jagged letters, a constant presence, just like she had been through every chemistry practical and every tuition day.

Then came Zehrah, adding a “hope for success” message and writing that I would always be the one whom she and her parents could trust. Ahyaan and Kazi followed, adding a quick inside joke that made me snort with laughter, despite the lump in my throat and the tears already beginning to form. As our pens scratched against the fabric, I realised this was it. These shirts were becoming maps of our history, covered in messy but colourful ink made of shared secrets.

The emotional toll of growing up is indeed a strange thing. We spend so much time wishing for freedom from one chapter and moving on to the next, praying for prestigious university acceptances. But in that moment, reality hit me that after this chapter, we would not be seeing each other every day. We would probably be in different cities, different countries, different time zones and different lives.

It reminded me of the time when Naina from one of my favourite movies said that yes, it was hurtful, but she was happy because she was carrying a “yaadon ka bara sa suitcase,” and at that point, I truly felt what she meant. I was really sad, but at least I had a suitcase full of memories to carry with me everywhere I went.

We’ve all seen it happen, people drift apart, group chats go silent and lives get busy, but growing up does not necessarily mean growing apart. The ink on these shirts might fade, but the things we went through, those are permanent.

We found a quiet corner in the field to place a makeshift time capsule with a few scribbled notes and a photo we had taken, and tucked it away. It was our way of saying that while the school gates were closing behind us, the door to our friendship would always stay wide open and, hopefully, a few years down the road, when we return to open this time capsule, we would still be as close as we were when we left.

As the final bell rang, a sound that used to mean freedom, but today felt like a goodbye, we stood in a circle, five uniform shirts now vibrant with colourful ink. We were terrified of the future, for sure. We were sad to leave the comfort of these halls, but as we walked towards the exit together, I realised that we weren’t just leaving this school. We were carrying each other into the next chapter of our lives, with more pages yet to be written in permanent ink.

Published in Dawn, Young World, May 16th, 2026