The first time Rayan met Tara, she hit him on the head with a mango.
He was five, sitting cross-legged under the huge mango tree in the middle of their village field, trying to eat the unripe fruit he'd stolen from the topmost branch. She, four and fearless, had climbed halfway up the tree with her little frock flying like a flag and declared, "That's mine!"
He had laughed. She had launched a mango at his forehead.
Their friendship started there—with a bruise and a shared mango slice, dipped in salt and chili powder.
From that moment, the mango tree became theirs.
They grew together. Like the tangled roots of the tree they called their castle.
Tara was loud, fast, and always a step ahead in trouble. Rayan was quiet, clever, and the one who always took the blame when her pranks went too far.
"Why do you always cover for me?" she once asked him, around the age of nine, sitting on the branch they claimed as their 'throne.'
He looked at her, cheeks full of mango, and mumbled, "Because you're worth the trouble."
Tara had blinked, then kicked his leg softly. "Idiot."
By twelve, they were inseparable.
They rode bikes with the chain falling off. They failed science projects together. They wrote letters to each other even though they saw each other every day. And every summer, the first mango of the season belonged to them.
But things changed, as they always do.
Tara's father got a job in the city. She was to move after their final year of middle school.
On their last day under the mango tree, they carved their names into the bark—R+T, in clumsy scratches.
"I'll visit every summer," she promised.
"You better," Rayan said, pretending not to cry. "Or I'll eat all the mangoes myself."
She hugged him tightly. "Save me one."
Years passed.
She didn't come that first summer. Nor the second.
Rayan watered the tree. He sat beneath it every birthday. He left a mango every year in a small cloth pouch at the base.
She didn't write. She didn't call. She didn't come.
By high school, he told himself she forgot.
By university, he met a girl named Maliha who was kind, smart, and called him "Ray" with a soft laugh.
But still, every summer, he left a mango for Tara.
Just in case.
Tara came back on a rainy afternoon in July, ten years later.
Soaked in a sari too bright for the storm, she stood under the tree, now taller and broader, like the boy she remembered had become a man.
Rayan saw her from the path and dropped the bag of books he was holding.
She looked at him, unsure.
"I ate the mango," she said with a smile that trembled.
"About time," he replied, his voice caught between joy and disbelief.
They sat under the tree, like always, but this time the silence held things too heavy to say.
"I'm getting married," she finally whispered.
He looked away. "Congratulations."
"I thought I'd come... one last time."
"You were supposed to come every year."
"I know. I was scared you'd moved on."
"I waited," he said softly. "Even when I didn't want to."
Their meeting ended with wet grass, laughter through tears, and a mango split between them.
"Do you love him?" Rayan asked, trying to sound light.
She nodded. "I think I do. He makes me feel... calm. Safe."
"That's good," he said.
"And you?"
He smiled. "Maliha makes me feel like the sun is always rising. We're engaged too."
They stared at each other for a long time.
And then, Tara leaned her head on his shoulder.
"This was our place," she said.
He placed the final slice of mango into her hand. "It always will be."
Years later, they visited again—this time with their spouses, their children, and a picnic basket.
The tree still stood tall. And beside their childhood carving, they added two more.
— A story that began but never ended.