Chunztenz

Part Three: Adulthood, Canada, and 22 Years Later

There is something nobody prepares you for when you become an adult.

Nobody tells you that one day you will wake up and realize that the person you were at 12 years old still exists somewhere inside you.

She simply becomes quieter.

Life gets louder.

Responsibilities get heavier.

Heartbreaks become bigger.

And somehow, we slowly forget the version of ourselves that once believed everything was possible.

But every once in a while, life has a strange way of bringing that version back.

Mine came back through him.

By 2013, we met again.

I was in Dharamsala during the summer.

I remember seeing him at TIPA.

He was talking to a girl.

And for a brief moment, I remember wondering if she was his girlfriend.

Then our eyes met.

It was one of those funny moments where years suddenly disappear.

We smiled.

We talked.

And then we decided to walk down to McLeod Ganj together.

It sounds so ordinary now.

Two people deciding to walk down a hill together.

But after years apart, it didn’t feel ordinary to me.

It felt exciting.

It felt familiar.

It felt comfortable.

Then life interrupted us once again.

Or rather, my brother did.

Back then, I was absolutely terrified of my brother.

He spotted me and immediately made me get on his bike.

Without saying much, I obeyed.

That was simply how things were back then.

And just like that, another chapter ended before it truly began.

I remember feeling disappointed afterward.

Not heartbroken.

Not devastated.

Just disappointed.

As if life had once again quietly whispered, “Not yet.”

Then came 2015.

By then, I was in a serious relationship.

It was my first proper adult relationship and the first person I had ever introduced to my family.

He was five years older than me and worked in aviation.

We were serious about each other.

That year, we were in Dharamsala to watch GCM at TCV.

Apparently, Bylakuppe was playing that day.

I was sitting beside my boyfriend, watching the match, when I noticed a familiar face on the field.

I looked again.

And there he was.

Wearing a white and a pink jersey.

Playing football.

I remember smiling to myself.

There was no reason to smile.

But there he was.

The boy from Deer Park.

The boy who helped me with a broken motorcycle.

The boy who somehow kept appearing throughout my life.

I quietly watched him play.

And for a moment, my mind travelled backwards.

To a river.

To a blue Hero Honda.

To a white plastic bag filled with chips and juice.

Funny enough, memories never ask for permission before returning.

That same evening, I saw him again at McLeod Ganj main chowk.

We greeted each other.

We shook hands.

And suddenly, every butterfly I had ever felt came rushing back.

Even now, I cannot explain it.

There was always something about him that never made sense to me.

It wasn’t obsession.

It wasn’t fantasy.

It wasn’t even longing.

It was familiarity.

It was a feeling that somehow survived the passing of time.

Then life moved quickly again.

As it always does.

In 2016, my relationship ended.

My boyfriend cheated on me.

And like many heartbreaks, it left me questioning everything.

Heartbreak has a funny way of changing us.

It makes us reflect on people.

It makes us reflect on choices.

It makes us wonder why some people disappear while others somehow remain.

Then, in 2018, life surprised me again.

I was in Bylakuppe for a TED meeting.

I had been posting Instagram stories about where I was.

Out of nowhere, he messaged me.

He said he was in Bylakuppe too.

Then he said something that instantly made me happy.

“Let’s meet.”

I cannot explain the excitement I felt.

Immediately, my mind travelled back to Deer Park.

I imagined us going there again.

I imagined us sitting by the river.

I imagined us laughing at our younger selves.

I imagined us reliving a memory that had quietly stayed with both of us for years.

But little did i know, he lied about being in Bylakuppe.

life, once again, had other plans.

We never met.

And somehow, that felt very us.

Almost every chapter of our story carried an element of unfinished business.

Instead, I sent him videos.

Videos of Pema Koe.

Videos of Deer Park.

Videos of the places where our story had once begun.

That year, although I was physically in Bylakuppe, I didn’t really go around much.

I stayed inside.

I chatted with him all day.

And somehow, without realizing it, I understood something.

He had never really left my mind.

Then came 2019.

He was in Dharamsala again to play GCM,

That year, I invited him, his teammates, and his younger brother to my birthday. Few days before that, We even went for a dinner at Dharamkot.

His younger brother used to tease me so much back then, always calling me by his brother’s name.

And when they all arrived, I remember feeling genuinely happy.

Perhaps happier than I should have been.

Back then, I was extremely extroverted.

I loved throwing big birthday parties.

There were players from all over.

The Birthday venue was full of laughter.

People were everywhere.

But if I am being completely honest, there was only one person I was quietly happy to see.

Later that same week, we met again at a club.

And for once, I decided I wasn’t going to let time slip away so easily.

I stayed close to him.

Other people came over to talk to me, but my attention always went back to him.

Looking back now, that was probably one of the boldest things I had ever done.

Then, just like every other chapter in our story, it ended.

The next day, he left with his team for Tso Pema.

And life carried on.

Then the entire world stopped.

COVID arrived.

We drifted apart.

Life became quieter.

That same year, I lost one of my favourite human beings to cancer.

Losing someone you love changes you forever.

It teaches you how temporary life really is.

It teaches you not to postpone love.

It teaches you that time is something we never truly own.

Maybe that was the beginning of another chapter in my life.

I decided to move to Canada.

In October of 2023, I packed my life into suitcases and started over.

I had no idea what I was doing.

But I trusted myself enough to figure it out.

Then, in August 2024, life surprised me yet again.

Out of nowhere, he messaged me.

He was in Canada for a tournament.

He asked if I was free for dinner.

I was shocked.

But I was happy.

Very happy.

At the time, I was trying to leave a toxic relationship behind.

I was emotionally exhausted.

I was tired.

And perhaps for the first time in a very long time, I simply needed someone I trusted.

We met.

Then we met again.

And then again.

Three consecutive days.

And this time, everything felt different.

We were no longer that 12 years old

We were adults.

Adults carrying decades of stories, mistakes, heartbreaks, and life experiences.

Yet somehow, sitting beside him felt incredibly familiar.

We spoke about things from twenty years ago and laughed like children again.

The comfort I had been searching for suddenly appeared.

And perhaps that is the best word I can use to describe him.

Comfort.

Not chaos.

Not uncertainty.

Not confusion.

Comfort.

There was no pressure.

No expectations.

No labels.

Just two people who happened to know each other across 22 years of life.

At one point, he mentioned that he was going through a complicated relationship too.

For a brief moment, a selfish thought crossed my mind.

I wanted to tell him to let it go.

I wanted to tell him to choose me instead.

I wanted to tell him that perhaps life had been trying to bring us together all along.

But love is not selfish.

What I feel does not have to be reciprocated.

And perhaps adulthood teaches us one very important lesson.

Sometimes loving someone means letting them exist exactly as they are.

Without asking for more.

Without demanding an ending.

Without forcing a destination.

It is now 2026.

I have not spoken to him in a long time.

Some people tell me he is single.

Some people tell me he is married.

Others tell me he is committed.

The truth is, I no longer know.

And perhaps, for once, I am okay not knowing.

Soon, I will be visiting New York.

Sometimes I wonder if I should send a message.

Sometimes I wonder if I should simply let life decide one last time.

But then I remind myself of something else.

Maybe this story was never about finding an ending.

Maybe this story was always about gratitude.

Because perhaps true love is not possession.

Perhaps true love is simply being able to say, thank you for existing.

Thank you for the broken motorcycle.

Thank you for Deer Park.

Thank you for the butterflies.

Thank you for reminding me what innocence felt like.

Thank you for being the one person who quietly travelled with me from childhood into adulthood.

Thank you for becoming a memory that never faded.

Maybe some people are not meant to become our forever.

Maybe they become our what if.

And maybe that is okay.

Because in a world where people constantly come and go, there was once a boy who never really left.

And somehow, after twenty two years, that still makes me smile.

Maybe that is enough.

Or maybe…

the story is not over yet.

❤️

The End… for now.

P.S.

If life decides to bring us together in New York, perhaps there will be one final chapter to write.