Samad met Kate when they were five years old, on the first day of primary school. The classroom was noisy—kids crying, parents giving last-minute instructions, teachers trying to bring order to the chaos. Samad sat in the corner, his small hands gripping the straps of his new backpack, watching everything in silence.
Then she appeared.
A girl with two neat pigtails and a bright yellow dress stomped toward him with the confidence of someone who had already decided how the day would go. She stopped in front of him, tilting her head like she was studying something fascinating.
"What's your name?" she asked, hands on her hips.
Samad hesitated. He wasn't used to strangers being this direct. "Samad," he finally muttered.
She grinned. "I'm Kate. Now we are friends."
And just like that, they were.
Kate was different from anyone Samad had ever met. She never hesitated, never second-guessed herself. While he preferred to stay quiet and observe, she jumped into everything headfirst. When the teacher asked a question, her hand shot up before she even knew the answer. When break time came, she dragged Samad outside to play, ignoring his protests.
"You can't just sit alone all the time," she told him. "That's boring. Come on.
Samad, too shy to argue, followed.
From that day on, Kate became a constant in his life. She was always there—saving him a seat in class, handing him half of her biscuits, making sure he never spent a moment alone. Even when other kids called him "quiet boy" or "shy Samad," Kate would roll her eyes and say, "He talks plenty when he wants to."
She was his first friend. His best friend.
And in that moment, at five years old, he had no idea just how much she would come to mean to him.