The Missed If

Funny how a dusty book can undo years of forgetting.

I found it while cleaning—buried between old notebooks and greeting cards from a lifetime ago. The spine was cracked, pages yellowed and slightly stuck together. It was a book she gave me on Friendship Day, back in college, 1992.

I had told the library I lost it, paid a fine, and kept it. I don’t even remember why. Maybe it was because she loved it—some story about missed connections and quiet heartbreaks. She said it reminded her of us. I always meant to read it. Never did.

Today, for no real reason, I opened it. And out dropped a small, blue rectangle.

An Icy card.

And just like that, the memory came rushing back.

14th February 1992. Our college was buzzing with the “Icy Card” contest—sponsored by that minty menthol candy we all loved. You had to send anonymous cards to classmates, crushes, or friends. The most unique or impactful ones could win a prize.

She and I—let’s call her Sh—grabbed a stack and camped out in the library. We were chaos in motion—writing silly notes to every Smart Alec and popular kid, stirring the pot in pure mischief. We signed them all Anon. No fame, no credit, but so worth it.

That afternoon was magic. She was radiant—short bob cut, oversized shirt that probably belonged to her dad, jeans she swore she hated but always wore. She tried to wear this tough, tomboy air—but beneath it, she was full of light.

And for a while, she let me see it.

She told me things that afternoon. About her parents. About this complicated thing with a guy named AK. Her voice cracked once or twice. I just listened. I think that was all she needed.

But something shifted after that day. The next time we met, she was distant. Polite, but not present. It was like none of it had happened. I tried reaching out, but the warmth was gone.

And then we graduated. She left to study engineering. I stayed behind. Life happened. No phones. No WhatsApp. No way to bridge the silence.

And yet—I kept the book.

Today, I opened it. And found this card, stuck between two chapters:

Dear mANON,
I don’t know what today really was, but I haven’t felt this comfortable with anyone in a long time.
Thank you—for listening, not judging, just being there. It meant more than I could say out loud.

Somehow, you made me feel like I don’t have to try so hard to be someone else.
Maybe it’s the high of a silly day. Or maybe it’s more. I don’t know.

But I like you. A lot.

If you feel anything too, write me back.
Yes, no, maybe—just let me know.
Before the 16th.

—ShANON

I read it again and again.

Did I really miss this? How could I have?

Was she serious? Or just playing along with our prank war?

I’ll never know.

But it hit me—I missed the if.

And maybe that’s what life is. A string of missed ifs—tiny windows we don't realize were open until they’re long shut.

But I’ll tell you this: for one afternoon in 1992, I saw a version of her—and myself—that I’ve never forgotten.

Even if she was always just out of reach.