Shreya Gupta
The attic was a treasure trove of memories. Dust particles danced in the sunlight filtering through the small window. Emma opened an old box labeled “Summer 2010” and smiled as she sifted through its contents. Amidst the photographs and trinkets, a familiar shape caught her eye.
A paper plane, slightly crumpled but intact.
Unfolding it carefully, she read the faded words: “No matter where we go, we’ll always have this.”
Her heart skipped a beat. Memories of lazy summer days, laughter, and whispered secrets under the old oak tree flooded back.
“Jake,” she whispered.
—
Willow Creek was the kind of town where everyone knew everyone. Summers were warm, and the days felt endless. For twelve-year-old Emma Greene, it was paradise.
Every afternoon, she’d race her bike to the old oak tree by the river, where Jake Carter would be waiting, a stack of paper in hand.
“Ready to fly?” he’d grin.
They’d spend hours crafting paper planes, each one more elaborate than the last. Emma’s were colorful, adorned with doodles and stickers. Jake’s were sleek, designed for distance.
“Someday,” Jake said, launching a plane into the sky, “we’ll fly away together. Explore the world.”
Emma nodded, eyes shining. “Promise?”
“Promise,” he replied, linking his pinky with hers.
—
The news came suddenly. Emma’s father had received a job offer in Chicago. The family would be moving at the end of the month.
Emma was devastated.
“I don’t want to leave,” she cried.
Jake tried to be strong. “We’ll keep in touch. Send each other paper planes. It’ll be like we’re still here.”
On her last day, they met under the oak tree. Jake handed her a plane.
“For you.”
She unfolded it: “No matter where we go, we’ll always have this.”
Tears streamed down her face as they hugged tightly.
“Don’t forget me,” she whispered.
“Never,” he promised.
—
At first, Emma tried to keep her promise. She’d fold planes from homework assignments, scribble notes—”Made the soccer team!”—”Got an A on math!”—”Miss you.” She’d sneak them into envelopes and mail them off, imagining them fluttering across states, over highways and rivers, landing in Jake’s hands.
But middle school blurred into high school, and the planes came less often. New friends. Homework. Parties. Life.
Still, on certain quiet nights, she’d sit at her desk and fold a plane. Even if she didn’t send it, the simple act felt like a lifeline to who she was—and to Jake.
Meanwhile, back in Willow Creek, Jake never stopped folding. His planes littered his room—some carried his sketches of the river, others were marked with secrets he couldn’t share with anyone else. Every birthday, he’d send Emma a plane, his neat block letters spelling out “Happy birthday, Em. I miss you.”
Sometimes he’d get a reply—Emma’s handwriting had grown loopy, and her words hinted at a world he couldn’t quite reach. “Busy with college stuff.” “I wish you were here.” “Everything’s different.”
But always, always, “Don’t forget me.”
—
Jake watched the mailbox every day, hoping for a plane from Emma. Sometimes they came—simple notes scribbled on folded wings—but other times, weeks would pass without a word.
By sophomore year, life tugged him in different directions. His dad lost his job, and Jake took on part-time work at the hardware store. Between shifts and homework, the oak tree became a distant friend. Yet he still found time to fold planes—his therapy, his tether to Emma.
One late summer evening, he found himself under the oak, a plane in hand. “I miss you,” he wrote, “but I understand. Life happens. Just promise you won’t forget me.”
He launched it toward the river, watching it spin and crash into the grass. He picked it up, smoothed the crumpled edges, and sighed.
—
In Chicago, Emma’s life felt like a tornado. Honors classes, soccer, debate team—her calendar was packed. She tried to fold planes, but the words felt hollow.
At a party one night, surrounded by laughter and music, she realized she’d grown into a different person—someone who wasn’t always sure of her old self. She missed Jake, but she didn’t know how to reach out without feeling like a stranger.
One rainy night, she finally sat down and folded a plane. “Life is busy,” she wrote. “But I still think of you. I hope you’re okay.”
She didn’t send it. Instead, she tucked it into her journal, a silent wish in a sea of chaos.
—
The summer before college, Emma’s parents’ marriage unraveled. Her mother decided to move back to Willow Creek, and Emma, with nowhere else to go, followed.
Driving through the familiar streets felt like stepping into a dream. The old oak stood by the river, unchanged, a monument to her childhood.
She felt a pang of guilt. Had she kept her promise?
The first night back, she couldn’t sleep. She pulled out her journal, found the folded plane she’d written and never sent, and tucked it into her pocket. The next morning, she rode her bike to the oak tree.
Jake was there, older but instantly familiar. He was taller, his shoulders broader, his face more serious. But when he saw her, his grin lit up the world.
“Emma,” he breathed.
“Jake.” Her voice trembled.
She pulled out the crumpled plane and handed it to him. “I should’ve sent this ages ago.”
He unfolded it and read the simple message. His eyes softened. “I missed you every day.”
They stood there, two hearts finding their way back.
—
That summer became theirs again. Every day, they met under the oak, sharing stories, laughter, and new dreams. They talked about college—Emma was headed to NYU, and Jake had a spot at a state university two hours away.
One afternoon, Emma confessed, “I was scared you’d forget me.”
Jake smirked. “You think I could forget the girl who taught me how to fold planes? Even the lopsided ones that nosedive into the dirt?”
She laughed, tears shining. “Especially those.”
He handed her a plane. Inside: “I’m proud of you. Always.”
She folded one in return. “I love you.”
His reply came back fast. “I love you too.”
—
The final week of summer, they built a giant plane together—patched with all their old notes and decorated with doodles and quotes. It was messy, imperfect, but beautiful. They wrote a single message inside: “No matter where we go, we’ll always have this.”
Together, they launched it. It soared higher than any plane they’d ever made, looping in the wind before drifting down to rest among the wildflowers.
Jake took her hand. “Promise me you’ll keep sending planes.”
Emma smiled through tears. “Promise.”
—
Years later, Emma sat in her Brooklyn apartment, the city lights sparkling outside. Her phone buzzed. It was Jake. “Check your mailbox.”
She raced down the hall, heart pounding. Inside, a crumpled, familiar shape awaited her.
A paper plane.
She unfolded it. “Still flying together. Always.”
She laughed, tears streaming down her face, and whispered, “Always.”
—
The End.
